Day 10.

The poem I wrote for my "final," Yoga Teacher Training (A Sides) I am finishing up today:

Pink light, from somewhere: the hint.

She wakes in a cracked bark cave,

someone else's land:

macaws hearkening some stranger taking foot

in the leaves, below some rumbling

as teaspoons of thought find roots, flower,

receive language -- take flight or foot or 

     some other shape:

A mountain standing, magma rising

from the core of its heart: Earth's blood.

In the palm of some unnamed hammock of a dream,

her feet touch down, land bare and tender.

And then: a cacophony of voices

hang like dappled light around her --

     near and then nearer: from the space

between her toes, the palms of her hands:

the vibrations of a string having been drawn

with a loving bow along the center

of her Self: here.

The notes escape her lips, dance

above her head and send themselves into the wild:

in all directions, Here, they call,

And here.  In the vines of tangled thought;

deep sand traps of fear: Here.

So she will know the way, her Self sends out

the song she will next sing, 

to follow, to guide, to be wherever she arrives.

In every direction, every country or realm:

a warm cabin waits glowing

with a chair in which to sit,

a bed in which to sleep, air to breathe,

and a song already hers to sing.

Eat. Pray. Yoga.

I've been thinking a lot about doing a lot of things that A) I don't feel like I have the time for, or B) I don't have the time to think/reflect on, and so can't possibly come to fruition.  I was watching a documentary on Permaculture with Josh the other night (one of the rare times in the last few months we've actually had time to sit down and simply be with one another, which was delicious), and the father of Permaculture, Bill Mollison, said something I can relate to.  He said, of working for a lumbering company back in the days before he contemplated the inherent wrongness of cutting down trees needlessly, that [logging] was the sort of job that did not allow for any time to simply sit down and think about things, which, he said, can drive a person crazy.

I can relate to this.  Everyone can, I'm sure, if they're really trying to notice how they feel after days or weeks on end with no time to be introspective.  I for one have been at my most whole during the times in my life when I'm doing something which is actively good in the world, and when I have lots of time to be introspective, read, journal, and generally notice life.

Adversely, I also know that ample time to be introspective can sometimes allow for lots and lots of time to notice how fucking psychotic I feel sometimes, which is a sort of unpleasant feeling, but that's neither here nor there.

Anyway.  I'm about three weeks away from Teacher Training.  THREE WEEKS!  I'm so excited I almost pee myself sometimes with excitement, and when I remember that a week or so after my training marks the end of my job, life in southern California, and just generally feeling stuck in the trough that is the Inland Empire, my whole body almost melts with the sizzly, awesome, magical feelings of embarking on a new adventure in the Bay Area.  Excited?  Why yes, yes. I. am.

I picked up Ravi's translation of the Yoga Sutras this morning, after making my coffee (I'm out of creamer, note to self), standing in my underwear at my bathroom mirror with life-affirming post-it notes all over it and struggling to want to be productive, and I asked myself, "What do you want your mornings to be like?"

I asked this because, working the shittiest schedule in the world (2-11pm, Monday-Friday) often makes me just want to be a blob and do nothing but surf Facebook all morning in anticipation of working a mindless job all night.  But the question is about something bigger: not just what I want my mornings to look like, but how those mornings turn into days and weeks and years, which comprise a whole way of being and existing in the world.  My vision is to make time to really be home when I'm home, nest and clean and make my living space lovely, make time for yoga, yoga teachings, and myself as a budding yoga teacher. 

One of them is also being productive, organizing my house, and preparing to leave it for a life in the Bay Area which will be simpler and full of things that are fulfilling:  time to relish in Life's beauties, contemplate and seek the Real, and lots and lots of yoga.

Enter: Eat. Pray. Yoga. 

Blog surfing yesterday morning (not packing my house or doing my dishes, like I told myself I would), I got a fabulous idea:  I want to create a group, a club, a church, a whatever: a group of people gathered together to be alive.  To eat delish food, make it, share it, swoon over it; to pray, to be with Nature and the Self, to seek the Truth's place in our hearts, and to yoga it up. 

Eat. Pray. Yoga.

This community can be local or global, and exist in many many forms.  There will be t-shirts.  This is not about the specifics, doing headstands on street corners or being an asshole yogi who thinks juicing and wearing Lululemon are the only way to achieve insight, but a mentality of graciousness and gratitude; a momentum, and an intention to be in the world consciously, to savor its delights, offer oneself to the benefit of the collective, and do it through the many mediums of yoga: movement, thought, action, stillness and intention.  And hey, if that still includes juicing and Lululemon, then rock on.

I guess in a way, this sort of embodies the way I want to exist in the world, and my thoughts on creating a community of good, rad people to share it with is driven because I've found it so difficult to really cultivate community here in southern California, where everyone drives around in big metal boxes, tuned out and zoned for isolation and consumption of the wrong kind of energies.  I want to change that, and perhaps selfishly, I want people around me to enjoy who enjoy the same things.  I really hope Berkeley will offer an outlet for this, because I need it in my life.

That said, I might be changing the name of this blog to Eat. Pray. Yoga.  Because really, it's rad.

Spout.

In starting this post, I did exactly what I told myself this post would not be like: I started to imagine the perfect way to start the post, the story to tell, the lesson to be learned, something comical-slash-wise-slash-intuitive.

But sometimes that's just bullshit.  I am sometimes total bullshit.  And most of the time, I take what could be little nuggets of opportunity to explore in an idea or insight, and I just poop all over them with my anal retentive need to perfectly craft words, because this is part of who I am: I am a writer.  My mother is a writer.  We write words good.

But as much as I want to spout wise and insight and blah blah blah, really, I just want to write. 

Can.
Car.
Bed.
Desk.
Christmas tree.

Words for the sake of words sometimes, movement for the sake of movement, which leads me to another problem: I can't practice at home sometimes (most times) because it's not the perfect fucking practice.

If I met me, heard my inner voice and the reasons why I don't do stuff, I would be so annoyed with myself.  I am so far from perfect and so very okay with it 89% of the time, so what's my deal with not being able to write, not being able to yoga?

Here, now, this is where I remind myself that THIS is exactly what this blog is about.  No name for a yoga, no way to confine or limit it; this yoga (all of ours) is about the flowering of our Selves, our hearts, our most natural way of being and seeing and relating, so that we can, in fact, become witness to our ultimate Connection, and our illusion of disconnect.

So fuck it.  I am doing yoga right now.  Right now, I'm honest. 

In between.

I woke up this morning (as I often do) in the place I can only refer to as "in between."  I wish I knew if the yogis -- or mystics of any kind -- have a name for this space of being.  These moments, waking up and not fully impeded by my conscious self, are some of the times when I feel most connected with the Other voice: the one that is not fully mine, but comes into being by way of me.  I get clear messages about myself, questions I've been pondering, or information about the nature of the world -- or thought, or being -- that I seem not to have access to as readily in my waking moments.

Is this making sense or do I need to be medicated?

So, having just registered for my first training workshop on my path to becoming a certified doula (!), I listened to the audio downloads that were made available to me last night.  That, and starting YTT this summer, I of course was full of a subtle and exciting sense of, THIS IS WHO I AM.

I found myself in the car on my way home talking to myself (I do this a lot, too), introducing myself as a yoga teacher, doula and photographer: these are the things I want to represent in life, because I'm proud of them, and in my years post-college doing (mostly) work I don't want to do, it's thrilling to feel like I'm on a path of self-actualization, having given myself permission to do and be just what my spirit is calling for.

But also, as I am keenly aware, the Universe has a way of putting you in your place.  One of my teachers, Lisa, says that the Universe gives us just what we need each and every day, and sometimes that finds you crying, confused and exploring all the neurotic facets of self.

Oh.  Just me then?

A couple of months ago, after reflecting on how much yoga practice means to me (and also at the height of having my relationship with my current studio threatened by personal conflict at the studio), it occurred to me that, if I'm not careful to remain neutral enough in my approach to yoga, the Universe is likely to teach me that I don't need it -- or at least to be attached to it -- by way of making yoga inaccessible to me.  Here, I began imagining physical injury which would make me, for instance, incapable of doing a forward fold.

I'm sure you can imagine the panic this evoked in me.  No forward folds?!?!?  DON'T TALK LIKE THAT.

So I took a moment, and explored that possible reality, and then after a pause, decided that that eventuality would be okay.... and then I let it go.

So after my self-talk last night (the whole introducing myself to myself as a yoga teacher, doula, etc), my "in between" voice this morning didn't exactly speak, but it gave me a clear message: Tread lightly.

It's one thing to "be" a yoga teacher, but it is another thing to teach yoga, and further, another thing entirely to not "be" a yoga teacher, much less anything else.  Here, I mean to imply that we can get lost in our images of ourselves, our definitions of self, and our definitions of others and the world we inhabit.  These things become the way we relate to ourselves and other people, which rarely invoke a feeling of all-inclusiveness.  My experience, in fact, is that these perceptions of self and other do more to isolate us and provide proof of the illusion that we are separate from one another.

One of my practices lately -- per a brilliant talk I listened to by Erich Schiffman -- has been to say audibly to myself, "Brother" or "Sister" when I find myself noticing a feeling that is distinctly not one of love or recognition toward another person.

Also, having recently picked up a favorite book that I read about 6 years ago (Going to Pieces Without Falling Apart, by Mark Epstein), it's noted that Buddhist psychology is built around the idea that the Western ideology of "self" is inherently flawed; that is, the Western perspective that to build self confidence -- thus finding happiness -- is by identifying who we are, what we believe/stand for/represent, etc.  But in the Buddhist perspective, it is by relinquishing these constructions of mind and self that we find not only happiness, but freedom.

This is what my Other voice was saying to me this morning in the in between, between the dream state and waking: Don't be a yoga teacher.  Don't be anything.  To put effort toward being is to lose the essence of being, is to lose the experience of experiencing.

You are it.  We are always it.  Right now.

Floetry.

You know what I love?  Yoga.  You know what I also love?  Poetry.  You know what I want to do: combine the two and teach a workshop called Floetry.  Bam.

Imitation.

A cascade of thoughts came down this morning, and it started with a woodpecker.

One (or several) have decided they like the taste of the wood my house is built of, and every week someone is up there pecking away on the roof.  At first, it startled me and Bodhi.  Now, I'm used to it, but Bodhi still isn't sure.  He barks every time.  It sounds like somone is knocking.

I reveled in the sound of nature taking its course on/around my house and then I noted something interesting: my bird, Puja (a male white faced cockatiel, who is prone to mimicking anyone and everything) started tapping on his cage.  He was mimicking the sound of the woodpecker on the roof.

It made me smile.  Puja and I have been in each other's lives for almost 4 years now.  We've been through a lot.  I still remember the first time he mimicked me vividly; I was brushing my teeth, he was sitting on my shoulder, just a baby, and he let out the monotone trilogy of chirps meant to sound like "peek-a-boo," which is the first thing I tried to teach him.  I made such a kerfuffle over it (mouth full of toothpaste) that he quickly picked up on the reward center of his brain that told him that mimicking the sounds I made led to me making a jubilee of noise. 

Now Puja mimicks everything, including dogs barking outside, the microwave, and, as it turns out, woodpeckers.

Just this tiny domino effect sent me down the rabbit hole of thinking about life as imitation, how we imitate one another and our environment; mirror neurons and Masaru Emoto's work on water.  Imitation is reality in the making.

The more I thought about it, the more connections I made, and I think I might try designing a test-run type class around this idea, the way I would if I had, you know, actual students to teach.  I'll post what I come up with.

A slight interruption.

After a lazy morning sleeping in, coffee and snuggles with Bodhi (my dog), I found myself with some time to kill. 

Which is weird.  On normal mornings I never feel like I have time to kill.  Maybe being away in Ojai this past weekend reset my internal prana-give-away-er, because I think I'd usually wake up, have a short morning meditation and immediately start browsing Facebook mindlessly until it's time to get in the shower, and mutter obscenities that I didn't do anything productive.

But I didn't get on Facebook this morning.  Instead, I went outside with Bodhi to sit on a rock and take in the warm(ish) mountain morning, and kept my eye on a robin that woke me up with its incessant flying toward/into my large living room window. 

This life isn't so bad; three days in Ojai and I come home to my forest dwelling, birds and my pup.  And sitting on my rock this morning with the sun on my face and spider webs sparkling in the morning light, I found myself drawn toward a dialogue with myself wherein I was guiding a meditation.

This is, I've realized, part of finding my voice as a teacher.  I don't have a class to teach, and although Josh is always interested in learning what I have to teach about yoga, the intimacy of a private lesson between lovers is far different than a class setting.  But when I hear myself speak out these ideas and messages of yoga -- even if it's just to myself on a rock behind my house -- I start to feel like I am getting to know myself as a teacher.

And then I get really excited.

So this morning after coffee, although I hadn't planned on practicing today (I thought I'd just relax and let the weekend seep into me), I found myself rolling out my crappy mat (the one I keep at home) to do a practice.  This, as it turns out, would prove really difficult as it so happened that the robin from earlier in the morning was back and beating itself against my window again.

A wee note about me: when I am trying to sleep/relax/do yoga/meditate I can become nearly irate if my sweet silence is interrupted.  It's gotten better over the years, and it's probably a little dramatic to use the word "irate," but I definitely noted the dark clouds of anger forming over my head when, over the weekend, I was in restorative yoga and there was a dog barking and an obnoxiously loud motorcycle just outside the studio.

P.S. Ojai: what the eff is up with your biker population??!

Anyway, I'm not proud of this.  I know that part of the challenge of the journey inward is finding ways to be okay when the world does not cooperate with things like your wish for silence.

But this robin dive bombing my window thing was different.  It was a precious little birdy!  Trying to attack its reflection in my window!  Surely death was near!  I could just not handle having robin's blood on my hands/window.  Eventually (per a suggestion from a friend that I should tape paper to the outside of the window) the bird's self-mutilation seemed to stop.

All this was happening, though, in the middle of what was supposed to be an uninterrupted hour of home practice.  Clearly, the Universe had other things in mind.

All the same, I practiced using my own voice to guide myself into poses, feeling them out myself, remembering what I learned in Ojai, and messages I've held onto over the last few years.  Things I wished teachers would say to me during class, things I say to myself.

I started with reading a guided/body scan meditation in The Art and Science of Mindfulness, and practiced reading/speaking the way I would to a class.  I started to see the weaknesses in my phrasing, and where my strengths are.  Weaknesses: anatomy.  Strengths: communicating the spirit of the teachings.

All this, of course, according to myself.  (Teaching an actual class and getting feedback would be optimal.)

Then I led myself into asana practice.

Seated virasana (hero pose) to identify intention/find alignment from the hips up, blooming through the heart, opening the throat/vocal cords to vulnerability, finding a position that the head feels fully supported in.  Fluffy lips.

Cat/cow pose (marjaryasana/bitilasana) to warm up the spine/shoulders.
Plank.
Downward dog.

High lunge hip flexor stretch, right and left.
Downward dog, bring knees down.
Cat/cow with a slither.  (I forget what one of my teachers called this once.  It opens the side ribs and allows for some playfulness/movement of the side body before beginning surya namaskara.)

Surya Namaskara B
*Here I realized this might not be great sequencing, and it just feels wrong to put B before A, but the truth is that I get them mixed up.  I also feel a bit indebted to the traditionalist in me and feel like I should start with A and then go to B if the spirit moves me.  But I love sura namaskara B, which is probably why I felt inclined to go there.  The question of moving spontaneously in the poses gets raised for me here, and I'm wondering if Patanjali would roll over in his grave if he knew that there is a part of me that doesn't really give a shit if A is supposed to come before B*

Right around here I got distracted with the birdy suicide happening outside my living room window and had to tend to things to ensure no birds died while I was doing yoga.  When I came back I realized I was running out of time and still needed to allow time for Savasana, so I began to wrap things up.

Pigeon pose (Eka Pada Kapotasana [seriously?  this is the sanskrit for this pose?  holy shit!])
*Here I realized that this pose truly is becoming less and less uncomfortable for me, I think in part due to the fact that I've been putting my attention into this pose precisely because I panic when going into it.  I made a special point to forgive myself for being so hard on myself with this pose in times past, as well as thanking my gorgeous hips for easing me into it all those times.*

Savasana/body scan meditation


Oh, and I found a pretty great series of photos for Surya Namaskara B, which came in handy when I was trying to figure out exactly what I was doing this morning:



And because I mentioned Bodhi, here's a cute picture of him hanging out with my yoga block a while back:

And another one of him hanging out behind our house one sunny day:

And one more of us (plus my friend, Kate) on a hike a couple months ago:

I really do love my puppy.





Note: No birds died a horrible bloody death in the making of this blog post.

An open letter.

Dear yoga,

It's hard, you know, to always find the time for you.  The movement, I mean, because in my way, I'm doing yoga every minute.  Every breath, every moment of awareness, you are there.


Thank you for that,
Morgan

So you want to be a yoga teacher.

Reading up on the teacher training I'll be attending this summer (!!!), some of my hidden, inner thoughts on the manner are this:  I'm having to look up A LOT of the sanskrit names for poses I think I know.  (Judgement.)

crescent pose = anjaneyasana
bound angle pose = baddha konasana
mountain pose = tadasana
chair pose = utkatasana
standing forward bend = uttanasana

Yeesh!

I used to think that I would do yoga teacher training (YTT) when I had, at the very least, mastered hand stand (adho mukha vrksasana).  Then, upon realizing that I wasn't "mastering" anything (much less adho mukha vrksasana), I figured I'd just wait it out and know when it was time.

But now I'm roughly three months from starting formal training, and I feel like I should know ALL THE NAMES OF ALL THE POSES.  It reminds me of this comic from this blog that I love so dearly:

Right.  Because the brain works like that.



Being Nobody, Going Nowhere.

Finishing my yoga practice last night with sitting meditation, trying to find a place inside me that felt like home, trying to have an optimistic heart, I felt the familiarity of messages, loud and clear, from my body:  a tightening in my upper right shoulder, tight chest, pulling in, protecting.  And here I realized (if I hadn't already): I am terribly afraid. 

It seems opening up to the feelings and preparing the body to feel them don't make them any less difficult to feel.

This is about everything: What am I doing with my life?  Where am I going?  Who will be there with me?  Starting yesterday morning, I could feel the previous night's pillow talk wearing on me, my patience waning, my trigger finger heart shooting off all over the place.  My whole life I've been desperate for meaning, and even more so: desperate for love.

Maybe it's only now that I'm allowing myself to be aware of it do I realize: I am grasping the shit out of life.  My fears of not having what I want almost certainly prevent me from being able to notice if or when I have it, even for fleeting moments.  And what tells me is this: my body.  Even writing this, my brow is furrowing, my shoulders are tightening, my breath is shallow. 

What are we doing?

I'm looking at a dusty book shelf full of words, of bound sets of ideas.  At my desk with wilted flowers.  At clean clothes piled, folded, yet to be put away.  These are the things I've built around me.  Is this what I protect?  I sit with my hands drawn into fists, placed at my mouth; no words.  We're one place in our minds, and then the world happens, and it's only glancing at a small carved wooden sculpture of a man and woman in embrace that I remember the tiny gift shop in Assisi where I bought it five years ago; and those earrings that broke, and the incense that has been burned up.

Where does all of it go?

In four months the person I've built yet another life around will leave, go to school, to another city, go find the first few steps of a new path, and I'll be here, with the dust settling around what were weekends spent in silence or basking in the sun coming through the skylight.  My life will go on, regenerate itself around an absence.  I want to go with him.  But I want to go with me, too, and I don't know if the two fall in line with one another.  But is my life here?  In the mountains?  In a quiet house that no one visits, with nature that I am sometimes too afraid to be a part of in its immensity.

In four months that will turn into two, which will turn into hours on some teary night, some beginning of some end and some start to some beginning we can't see or touch or plan for, and I wonder: What are we fighting for?  Why don't we fight more?  How do people ever belong to each other when they never really do?  Why do we act like we have a choice when clearly, we do not.

When it seems so obvious on some days that we are all just trudging through sorrow and suffering, trying to release ourselves from the pain, and not be too attached to the joy, how is the world not full of lunatics?  How are there ever moments of respite, of laughter.  If it all just goes -- all of it, every moment dissolving into another -- how do we not just disappear, and dissolve into one another in our madness.

Vinyasa berries: Going with the flow.

This song has been in my head for at least 24 hours: Happiness, by The Weepies.  Youtube, you are on Super Fail Mode, because there is not a video of this song to link to, so these lyrics (the ones that in my head) I'll share instead:

Got a charger, no cell phone, I can't call out,
unless it's to cry your name out the open window
to a sky that looks right back
and says it's never seen rain.
Sometimes you gotta start clean;
you gotta begin, not begin again.


Lovely, eh?  And appropriate.


I came home wanting cold cereal: toasted yummy Joe's Oh's with berries, and realized I'd left the milk out this morning, which = no cold cereal late night snack after working all night.  Frustrating?  A tad YES.

Among other things. 

I have been riding the wave of awesome yoga energy the last couple of days; my kundalini energy is even going all kinds of crazy, and I have been loving it.  Even (dare I say) grasping at it.  Example: yesterday morning doing solo home yoga to this amazing lady's class, I could start to feel my mind clench around how badly I want to go to Ojai and study with this woman.  (You know the feeling; it feels remarkably like you will die or live a less important life if you can't have what you want for absolutely certain.)  Whenever this happens (the mind-clenching thing), I remember a conversation with my lovely friend Laura one year shortly after college, where she held her sweet hands out and demonstrated how she was focusing on not clenching *clenches hands*, but just.... opening.  *And she opened her hands.*

I see her hands and think of this so often, and as I was telling one of my yoga teachers this morning, whenever I can start to feel my mind clenching around something, someone or an idea (that is, when I'm aware of it), I try to practice open-hands-mind.  And, because I am in a state of near rejection at the possibility that I may not, for example, get the time off I would need to be able to start yoga teacher training (YTT), I know how imperative it is that I really flex my mental clench muscles in preparation for release.

Which, as I write this now, occurs to me as a very good way to describe one aspect of asana practice: a holding and strengthening of the body, in preparation for release, and for the clearing of blockages/expectations.

But, as we all inevitably find, the bliss of morning meditation can get interrupted by the leaf-blowers, and one senseless act by another person can elicit near-rage in us.  Then we I forget the spaciousness of mind that was created in practice, and oh-so-quickly trade it out for harsh words and thoughts, which I was reminded recently: however private those thoughts seem, they are not; the energetic drainage that results in those tiny mental lightening bolts has so much more energetic mass than the thought itself, and so this is something else I've been thinking a lot about: How do I want to throw out my energy?  How aware am I when I'm doing it?

Some knee-jerk (negative) energetic outpourings I've noticed (but have refrained from judging) the last couple days:

• Mumbling/yelling/snarking humorously to myself at/about other drivers while driving.  Favorites include name-calling and lots and lots of swearing.
• Irrational irritation at my dog, whom I love to crazy tiny pieces, for simply being a dog, who happens to still be a puppy.  

If I'm honest with myself about that last one, I actually really love how dumb Bodhi (my dog) acts sometimes.  He's like the secretly smart best guy friend you love the poo out of, but who acts like he had battery-acid-laced Pepsi in his bottle when he was a baby.  Bodhi is a really smart boy, although a little misguided in his actions, which is obviously a reflection on my dog training skills.  Although I act frustrated, I am not surprised by this behavior.

Which leads me to: delight.  What of it?  Lovely Kira Ryder said in her class (above) that when we have predicted something (which might sound like, "I just knew that was gonna happen..."), we are rarely referencing something positive and joyful. 

Not only does this take the surprise and delight out of life, but it's a sucky way to live.

So, my practice today was: be delighted.  Relish in my movie plot life.  See what it feels like to be engrossed and engaged in the next steps, the next action or inaction, which will (and have already) set all other things in motion.

All with kind eyes.  Open throat.  Kissable lips.  Light mind.

Ramble ramble.

At work.  I have all this energy.  My body is here, but my mind is flying.

I'd rather by yoga-ing.
Almost all the time.
Everywhere.

I remember the first vacation I took after I started practicing yoga.  I think the plan was to be gone for about a week.  I found a bhakti yoga studio, brought a travel mat, and went to town.  I couldn't stand not practicing yoga for more than a couple of days. 

And then, later that year, I backpacked Europe for almost a month.  All tourist stuff, no yoga.  It hurt.

My next vacation will be all yoga.  Reason being: I don't plan on taking a vacation until teacher training in July.  So it will all at once not be a vacation, and also it will be the best vacation of all time.

Must go.  Must work.  Heavy eyes.

An uncomfortable feeling.

For instance: this morning's vinyasa krama class.  For the first time in a long long time, I found myself annoyed that we weren't doing more.  Some of my thoughts included intense frustration at all of the standing and moving of the arms.  My legs and hamstrings were sore, I wanted stretching.  Movement.  MORE MOVING. 

When I finally noticed the quiet rage welling in my chest at the slow pace of the sequences, I gently hushed myself, and gave myself a peaceful reminder that I was being given the opportunity to practice love and stillness in yoga, even in movement.  So I had precisely the opportunity to practice yoga, not just a series of asanas.


Okay, let's get real.  This morning's frustration is about more than a slow class or my monkey mind.  My yoga has suffered because of tension between myself and two of my teachers, who happen to be the owners of the studio where I practice.  (I'm not sure who I'm writing to, here, because the existence of this blog has not been publicly announced, but perhaps the seeming privacy is why I [ironically?] feel so much relief in the freedom to open my heart about this frustration, without fear of persecution surrounding this topic, because no one in my current yoga circle will read this.)

I suppose, despite my hurt and frustration, I don't feel the need to air the dirty details of this conflict, but to say simply that the conflict has left me feeling so hurt, feel so taken advantage of, and confused.  By yoga people.  It is so especially painful because of how much I have admired these people, looked up to them and looked to them for direction, teaching, and generosity of heart and spirit, and to be included in their inner circle of those they trust and have befriended.

I am disillusioned to say the least, and conflicted at the worst, because I find myself backed up against a wall where I am having to defend my intentions and also guard my best interests without support, but also my relationships with these people and the studio that has given me the gift of yoga.  And it's a small town: there are few yoga options.

It's here, in this conflict, that I'm seeking the Middle Path.  Somewhere between self-efficacy and selflessness, I need to find balance, because the conflict remains, as do all parties involved.  And it's here where I'm learning to accept my teachers as human, flawed and deserving of forgiveness, and that I have to loosen my grip on myself, too, and allow some wiggle room for healing, because if I don't, my yoga will be tainted.

As it was this morning.  As it has been for weeks.

It's unfortunate that my yoga has come to circling this drain.  This is so earthly, and so uncomfortable.  It's like the point at which you realize your perfect new boyfriend actually shits and has hair on his butt.  The illusion is dead.

I don't know what else to say.  I was going to be so wise and make some really good points about moving through uncomfortable feelings, and instead I have resorted to talking about shit and butt hair.  Such is life.

Getting started.

I remember the second class I ever took at the yoga studio I have come to call home.  I was nervous, like First Date nervous.  It was a yin class.  I drove from my house to the studio, focusing intently on remaining open, peaceful and clear-minded.  My self-talk probably sounded much like it would had I been going on an actual date.  (All kinds of self-affirming, self-validating, confidence-building fluff in the face of what was some serious fear of the unknown.)  After my first overwhelmingly positive class experience, I had clearly psyched myself out.

I couldn't tell you why it was this class that made me nervous; I didn't know anything about yin yoga, but I hadn't known anything about the other vinyasa classe I'd taken, either.  But what I remember was nerves extending in prickly little waves throughout my whole body.

I want these people to like me.  I want to be good at yoga.  Why in the shit do these classes last so long.


Almost two years into my yoga practice, and we've been through a lot, me and Yoga.  I remember those first experiences as hallmarks of newness, counting each class and mentally cataloging my experiences; each was so different than the last.  Yoga, as it turned out, was helping me in staging a huge transition during a hard time in my life.  I remember latching onto the practice, learning, searching, going back for more and more and more.  I was hungry.

And in the space that Yoga began to fill and expand in me, I knew: Yoga will change everything.  I had correspondence with a teacher who told me, "Yoga will ruin your life," and I knew without speaking it: everything is falling apart.  And this teacher said, "Life, jobs, relationships, all your attachments:  Yoga will take them from you.  And then it will give you everything back, and it will be better, because it will be true, and it will be you." 

Every quiet corner of self I'd wanted to hide from: Yoga pointed it out.  Yoga told me when I hadn't gotten enough sleep or had enough water.  Yoga told me when I was feeling centered, or when I was unbalanced.  It showed me how I deal with conflict, or how I ran from it.  It showed me how kind I am willing to be to others by illuminating how kind I was willing to be to myself.  Yoga was my teacher, my parent, my sister and friend; yoga was enemy and lover, past, present and future. 

And during times when I thought I would collapse under the weight of a grieving heart, yoga was my solace.

There were times on my mat, in a room full of (mostly) strangers, that the communion between my body, heart and mind kept me connected to truth -- any truth, whatever it was in that moment.  And I would have this conversation with myself, "Okay, Morgan.  This is your conflict.  This is your pose."  Conflict in poses became an opportunity to address conflict off the mat, and an opportunity to move through conflict. 

So I would breathe.  Feel my heart pounding, and breathe.  Feel sweat burning my eyes or dripping from my elbows.  And breathe.  I would feel my standing leg ache with supporting the weight of my body, and know that it was the burden and gift of that leg.  I would feel the tension in my body and mind.... and then I would come through it and know: the hard part is over.

Through sweat and sometimes tears (not of pain, but of release), I resolved so much for myself on my mat in those first months, which turned into a year.  And now, almost two years after those first days of counting classes and logging experiences, I've circled back around to what I knew for certain one hot evening back then:  I need to share this.  I expect my quest as a student will never end, but now I know that I need the reciprocity that comes with learning with a purpose: to teach.

I start here.

I'm calling the blog No Name Yoga for a couple of reasons:

1)  I too easily define myself by what I am able to define about other things.  I am hereby resisting the urge to do that with my yoga.

2)  There are a million yoga teachers out there, and almost as many different kinds of yoga, schools of thought, and applications for the world we live in now.  Yoga has come from far far away and across thousands of years to join us here in the West, and to touch the lives of its patrons and students in countless ways.  Yoga is not One Size Fits All, and I think our yoga needs change as we do. 


I'm not seeking the one Answer To All Questions Forever And Ever Amen, but the simplicity and clarity that comes with releasing one's expectations of an experience.  In this way, I think the Truth can be felt more clearly.



Just for fun (and for my own reference): here are a couple of pictures illustrating a portion of my journey in Bakasana, or Crow Pose:

About a month after I'd started practicing yoga, I really, really 

wanted to master bakasana.   I figured I'd managed to keep from

face-planting for long enough, and so one morning we snapped some photos.  

(This is the knees-on-the-outside/hugging-arms version.)

About a year later, something had clicked.  I brought my knees in, and higher, 

and my heels tucked in closer.  A lot of things about this pose had changed for me

by the time I climbed Mt. Baden-Powell, which is where this photo was taken.

And of course, when you summit your first mountain, 

one needs to do yoga.