Sunday Q and A. (Without the A)...

Action as Cliff-Diving...

No complaint. Action.

My husband has been bandy-ing this about lately.

(Bandy-ing? Bandieng?)

Anyhow. He read it somewhere, and it touched him. And I have grown to like it quite a lot, too. No complaint...action.

And we've been using it. In moments where we find ourselves slipping into mutual bemoaning...jobs, careers, creative projects, money, weather, driving, social outings...one or the other of us has been piping up, "no complaint, action!" And it has an immediate silencing effect. A positive silencing. A silencing of the mental wheels turning and a clarifying of sharp irrefutable CHOICE. As in...we have the choice to do something about that which gets us down...or not. Either way, the complaining either pre- or post- or during, is useless.

But, this is not about blind action or action as the only force of change (because I firmly believe that action is a partner in the process of creation, not THE process of creation)...because sometimes the "action" that rises up to release the complaint is just a few deep breaths. Sometimes the action that rises up is just about going back to driving the car or writing the email or eating the food--DOING whatever it is you were doing before you found something to complain about.

And I realize, that there are things that seem unchangeable, there are things that seem to have no complementary action...either because they are out of our control or because they just feel too big to ever be able to DO anything about them...but still, if you were to apply this equation, even to those peskiest of concerns:

No complaint, action...

Then wouldn't the only choice be to engage in SOME kind of action, in place of the complaint? A long walk. A phone call. A book. Sitting down and making something. And wouldn't that result in a kind of letting go? A softening around that thing that seems so impossible?

I had a conversation with a student after class today about falling out of handstand. She had taken a falling workshop and hadn't been able to master the art of the fall. It was too scary. The giving up of control too great. And we talked about how much courage it requires to fall. We talked about how it is so much more about the body and so not about the mind.

And, I thought about what it's like to jump into water from a great height...you know that feeling, when your toes are at the edge of the cliff, or the edge of the diving board, and the water is stretched out underneath you? Do you know the one?

Being the younger sister of a highly physically adventurous brother, and not being one to publically turn down a challenge (especially if presented by said older brother), I have found myself a reluctant cliff jumper on many occasions.

And what I have discovered, is that my mind is never what leads me off the cliff and down to the water below. To the contrary. My mind, if it had its way, would have me standing and contemplating possible outcomes, my calculatable physical safety, why on earth I'm doing this in the first place, until the sun went down behind me.

It is my body who has to decide. It is my body who has to take action. Body just steps...and falls. And it's done. Whatever happens afterward is a present-moment experience, and there will be no choice but to take it as it comes. Action, action, action.

(Perhaps the state of presence is nothing more than a state of action. Without complaint.)

Regardless of what else you may believe, it is clear that we are physical beings, living and breathing and loving and working in a physical world. We are meant to act. Action is a delicious thing...and it exists, it only exists in the present. You can't take action yesterday or tomorrow...only now.

And so today, if you feel yourself drifting into complaint (which includes self-criticism, which includes any thought/feeling/story that concludes that what is happening in your life in this moment is somehow not appropriate), stop, take a breath, and look for an action to take. Not to SOLVE what you're complaining about, but for the pure pleasure of engaging in the present-moment-ness of your life. Jump off that cliff.

(No complaint. Action.)

Buy Soap, Accomplish Less...

Does reading other people's blog posts count as writing?

(Please don't answer that).

I am on a writing regiment. I have assigned myself a certain number of hours a day to write, and for the most part it has been swimmingly easy. On many days it goes by so quickly I think, well, shoot...I could double this.  But on other days, (today, for instance), the allotted time feels like a pitch-y cavern laid out in front of me. One that I desperately want to avoid. And so, as my designated start time approaches I will suddenly find myself accomplishing a whole list of very necessary tasks that, no, can not be done at any other moment except this one. Ordering that face wash I've run out of. Checking my spam email for stray job offers, giant checks, missives from long-lost friends. Putting laundry in. Taking laundry out. Making a list of all the other very necessary tasks that I ought to get done at least that day, if not right this very minute.

And the time ticks by.

Procrastination, I believe they call this. (Who me? No...I'm just being productive in other ways.)  In The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali he lists procrastination as one of the nine obstacles to practice. He doesn't call it procrastination, in the Sutras it's referred to as styana, or self-defeat. Self-defeat. As in, I have made an agreement with myself that I'm going to do this thing that I want to do, that's important to me, that makes me feel better in the doing of it, but I--the other I, the other half of this contracted pair--am going to go ahead and disobey that agreement, ruining the whole plan from the outset.

In the midst of procrastination, both of these I's are present. If they weren't, there would be no conflict, right? It wouldn't be an uncomfortable state. The problem with procrastination, this styana, this self-defeat, is that both the you who made the decision to take the action and the you who now doesn't want (for whatever reason) to take said action, are present. And they are duking it out. 

This to me seems to be at the heart of all personal conflict.  There is the you that wants what's best, and there is the you that doesn't want to comply, or doesn't think she's capable of complying, or doesn't think she's worthy of complying, and those two you's are at war. Even the term "self-defeat" implies that there is a SELF (a bigger self, a she-who-knows-best-eth) and then there is that which defeats the self. These two forces are not equal--there is truth, and then the destruction of it.  There is me, and then all the crap I do to get in my way.

And what I love about this, and the philosophies of yoga at a whole, is that the basis of understanding, the hypothesis is that what is underneath, what rises up when we stop doing all of the stuff we do to get in our own way--is good.  That the big Self, is good. And contains in her all of the truth that we're after and the growth we're seeking and all of it. And that there is not, then, some perfect action that we have to take, all we have to do is stop defeating her. Allow her to be. Stop procrastinating. And see what happens...

FRESHness...

I had an experience in a class I was taking, many moons ago, in which we were doing partner poses, and I, pro that I thought I was, was proudly holding up one of my partners legs, when I heard from across the room the rather stern voice of my teacher, calling out:

"Lia! What are you doing? You're spotting the wrong pose!"

And I looked down to discover that, indeed, I was spotting my partner in the non-rotated version of the rotated pose we were supposed to be doing.

"Notice that." my teacher said, rather brusquely, "You're not paying attention."

And for many minutes afterwards I fumed, silently, about the way she'd spoken to me. I felt scolded. I felt reprimanded. I felt called-to-task.  All of which, I was. And all for good reason. Because she was right--I wasn't paying attention. And I knew it.

I have, over the last several weeks, been noticing a lot of this in my own classes. Students jumping ahead, assuming they know where we're going, when most often, they do not. Students going through the motions without listening either to me or to their bodies, when it's clear to me from across the room, that either I have just said something...or their body has...and that it has been ignored. I am sensitive to it these days.  It gets under my skin.

I think about stories of spiritual masters who give "shaktipat", the experience of instant enlightenment--the direct transference of awakeness from themselves to their students--and how some have been known to give it with a quick smack at an opportune time. That was what my aforementioned teacher gave to me. A well-placed THWACK to shake me out of my sleepiness.

But, it's not a surprising thing--all of us, anyone who does anything with repetition, anyone who practices anything, is going to fall occasionally under the spell of their own expertise and fool themselves into thinking they don't have to pay attention anymore. It happens in yoga, it happens in art, it happens in relationships...things get known, they get forgotten...and they get stale.

And so this word, freshness, has been coming to mind. Such a perfect word: fresh. One of those lovely words that is how it sounds and sounds how it is. Fresh. Freeeeeeeeesh. Fresssssssshhhhhhhhh. 


There are ways to be "present" that just involve the mental regurgitation of the learned pattern of things, meaning: Here's a tree. I know what a tree looks like. Here is my mental picture of tree, laminated over the top of that actual living tree. Isn't that pretty. And there are ways to be present which require an absolute newness, as in: Branches moving. Leaves fluttering. Solid trunk. New moss on the ground. Heat vibrating off bark. 

One requires more effort than the other.  

And in the practice of yoga, we are asked to practice the latter. We are asked to use our breath as a guide.  The breath, which is never ever ever the same (not ever once will this inhale be the same as the last) but is a perfect teacher because it can be mistaken for sameness. If you're not looking closely, the breath could just seem like the same pattern, repeated over and over. So, in order to see it for what it really is, in order to keep attention on the breath, in order for it to be FRESH, you really have to be there with it. You really have to be feeling out, each inhale and each exhale.  And, that is the way we are supposed to be coming to our practice.  Every time, as if it's new. Even the poses (especially the poses) we have done 100,000 times before--we are supposed to be looking with fresh eyes. Every time. What's new about this? Have I seen this? Have I really seen it? Or am I just holding myself in this position, because it's the way I've done it before, and so that's the way I'm going to do it now. Am I paying attention?

THWACK!

Am I paying attention?