Lauren Flax Yoga

There is no way of knowing, the first time you step on a rented mat and feel your shoulders burn in warrior two, or the first time you pop in a Rodney Yee DVD, that if you’re up for it, life can change. Really, there is no magic to the postures – they are just shapes- and it doesn’t ever have to be more than simple physical exercise. Unless it does.

There is this funny perception of yoga people, that we are these spacey hippie folks, out of touch with the world. The opposite is true. In the practice, if one chooses, one finds permission to feel things deeply, fully, and authentically, in the way that one can only feel when one knows with absolute certainty that it must change. That is where the mellowness comes from. It is not born of detachment from the world, but rather complete engagement in it.

This paradox is the heart of the practice. Yoga exists at the place where things become their opposites. Yoga is in the blurry, gray space where yang becomes yin, where pleasure becomes pain, where fragile becomes indestructible, where discomfort becomes release, where the struggle becomes freedom.

As one of my fellow teachers has stated more succinctly and perfectly than I could put it, “I’m always teaching yoga.” I AM always teaching yoga. There is the practice on the mat, and there is the practice off the mat, but really there is just the practice. Just yoga, yoking, union. Just life, fully present in that blurry space from which everything becomes clear.

I no longer worry about making space for the practice in my life. My life is the practice.

Even teaching itself is a paradox, communicating that which cannot be communicated, only experienced. Words make a shape around the essence of the experience, like a wax mold, but they are not the experience itself. As the words draw near, the essence drains out, leaving just the shape of it.

Since I started teaching yoga, I have used the word “ribcage” probably fifty to one hundred times a week, and never thought much of it until a class I took a few weeks ago, in which the teacher used the term “ribcase” instead of “ribcage.”

As a yoga teacher and writer I spend most of my life thinking about how people think, specifically about the embedded messages in language, and what lies in the unconscious – individual and collective. I have been talking about this in class lately. Listen: when you literally, intentionally put your heart above your head, your right brain knows exactly what you’re up to and integrates this information. It gets it. It knows what a heart is. The framework of the chakras is a helpful and very powerful visualization of the body, but the teaching can be transmitted without it. In yoga your body gains strength and health by leading with the heart and learning what to engage and what to release to find balance. Your brain hears this. It’s smart. It gets the message.

But, back to the ribcage / ribcase moment. When I heard the word “ribcase” it struck me how odd it is that we call the bony structure around the heart a “cage.” A cage is for holding back something which needs to be controlled, containing it. A case is for putting something fragile on display, making it accessible and usable. These are very different ways of communicating what a heart is, and the brain, it gets it.

It is easy to get impatient with the less active parts of a yoga practice. Particularly when we are new to the practice, or at times when we are full of vibrant energy, the slow breathing and centering activity at the beginning of a class and relaxation at the end can feel aggravating. It’s time to DO yoga! Get moving! Burn calories! Flush out the toxins! Go, go, go!

These are precisely the times when it is important to take a few moments to do nothing. As we center ourselves before the practice and relax at the end, it may very well be the only time in the day or week when we are not only permitted, but asked to do NOTHING. Just sit there and breathe, as an objective observer of our own bodies as the breath moves in and out.

When we do nothing but sit and watch the breath, it automatically changes whether or not we intend in to change. Likewise, when we observe the turnings of the mind in sivasana, the act of objectively watching the thoughts that rise and fall in the mind -without engagement- changes those thoughts. Not by an act of will, but simply by becoming aware, everything changes. The breath, and in turn the body, relax. The mind begins to quiet.

We know this same thing about the outer world through quantum physics; the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle tells us that the act of observing subatomic particles changes some properties of those particles. The observer becomes part of the observed system. As it goes for subatomic particles, so it goes for the breath and the mind. How very valuable it is to do nothing; those few moments of nothing during the day help us to move through all of the somethings in our lives with greater ease and clarity.

Like so many of the yamas and niyamas, the concept of “asteya” is fairly simple: non-stealing. Also like the other yamas and niyamas, the principle of asteya has depth and applies both to interaction with the outside world and the world within.

At its most basic, asteya simply means not taking what isn’t yours. Most of us don’t steal, or at least we think we don’t steal. But, what if we considered all of our actions in the context of non-stealing? How often to we justify taking that which does not belong to us, whether it is a pack of post-its from the office, or shampoo from a hotel? Going a little deeper, we may find that on occasion what we steal from others is our attention. When we are with a friend or spouse but our mind is elsewhere, we are stealing away the care and attention that our friends and family deserve.

Sometimes, as we examine our behavior, we may find that we steal from others and ourselves at the same time. For example, people who are always late are stealing others’ time, and stealing their own time and peace of mind as they rush from place to place. Other times, we may find that we steal from ourselves with our thoughts, constantly inventing stories about our own limitations that keep us from fulling engaging with the world.

On the mat, we can apply the concept of asteya as we scan the body in postures, looking for places of holding or tension. Squinting or scrunching the face during a tedious posture steals energy from the parts of the body that hold the position. Another example is habitually clenching the hands during hip opening postures. Clenching the hands steals energy and focus away from the opening in the hips. We also steal energy from ourselves on the mat when we allow the mind to wander during the practice; we miss the process of the postures manifesting in the body.

As a teacher, I often think of asteya when I approach a class on a difficult day. I know that if I let my mind wander during the class, or if I settle for just going through the motions when I am tired or upset, I am stealing from my students. All of my students are entitled to my full attention, love, and commitment when they make the commitment of their time and resources to be in my class.

The process of seeing our own behavior through the lens of the yamas and niyamas can be painful. Sometimes this examination reveals aspects of oneself that are unpleasant or embarrassing. Perhaps this is why we start with ahimsa (non-harming) and satya (non-lying), so that we can meet ourselves with compassion and honesty.

The first of the eight limbs of yoga are the yamas, the “don’ts” of an ethical life. There are five yamas, the second of which is satya, non-lying. On the surface, the meaning of satya is obvious: tell the truth, all the time. For many, this may seem idealistic. Our experience tells us that there times when we must lie, especially to protect another person’s feelings. After all, if we tell the truth and it is hurtful, are we then not practicing ahimsa?

Satya is not a license to be cruel, or to spout off our opinions unsolicited. One can express the truth in a manner that is kind, even if the truth itself may cause temporary discomfort or disappointment.

It is interesting to think about what would happen if we really told the truth all the time, and how it would change our conversations, from the passing pleasantries we share with co-workers, to important discussions with our families. Instead of hardwired statements like “fine,”"great,” “the usual,” and “of course, dear,” -which can bring their own harm- we might suddenly find our conversations filled with statements like, “I know, but I don’t want to tell you because I am afraid of what you will think of me,” and “I feel guilty because my opinion will hurt your feelings.” And sometimes, “I don’t know.”

How might your conversations change if after everything you said, you asked yourself, “is that so?” Truth telling is not restricted to our relationship with others; it applies to our relationship with ourself as well. Of the thousands of thoughts you have in a day, how many are actually true? What might happen if each and every thought were followed by the statement “is that so?” “I need a cup of coffee.” Is that so? “Everything will be better once I finish this project.” Is that so? These are just the little thoughts that form our experience. What of the larger thoughts and stories about life that we don’t notice or question? “This is just how relationships are after a while.” Is that so? “I can’t enjoy this too much, or something bad will happen.” Is that so? “No one really gets me.” Is that so?

Most often, we don’t tell the truth because we are afraid, and with good reason. If we started to tell the truth all the time, our lives would change radically; it is easy to imagine. Anything that is no longer true for us would start to fall away, the relationships, the jobs, the tasks, even some things that seem to bring us pleasure. It sounds scary – what would be left?- but shedding that which is untrue about our lives is like shedding garments that no longer fit, or changing a hairstyle that is no longer practical. Others may approve or disapprove, some may think we look like an entirely different person, but really, we have just found a more fitting way to move through the world.

This is the great power that exists in the truth. When we embrace it for ourselves, the world transforms around us.

The first of the eight limbs of yoga are the yamas, the “don’ts” of an ethical life. There are five yamas, the first of which is ahimsa, non-violence or non-harming. In the broadest sense, ahimsa means avoidance of causing physical harm to living beings, humans and critters alike. However, there is far more to the practice of ahimsa; it also applies to emotional harm, spiritual harm, or any other kind of harm.

It can be troubling to examine how each of our actions relates to ahimsa. Every action can contribute to suffering in some way, from the origin of the clothes we buy to the food we eat, to ignoring the needs of a spouse or friend, or driving aggressively. While awareness of the impact of our actions is extremely important, sometimes it can leave us overwhelmed, forgetting about the practice of ahimsa toward ourselves.

The physical practice of yoga is a safe means for examining the ways in which we cause harm to ourselves with our thoughts and our expectations. Where does the mind go in a difficult posture? Do you get mad at yourself for not being able to achieve your ideal? Do you push yourself to the point at which you harm your body? Do you accept the posture as it is in your body? Or is it during difficult postures that you check out, adjust your clothing, take a drink of water? Do these thoughts, ideas, and expectations serve you, or harm you?

Over time, as we examine our thought patterns in the postures, we begin to recognize these patterns when we come off the mat. Sometimes we need to push ourselves into difficult situations in order to “find our edge,” but other times we push ourselves as punishment or as a means of atonement for a perceived shortcoming. We overwork the body because we think we are unattractive, we overwork ourselves because we think we don’t measure up to some arbitrary standard, we overcommit because we think people won’t like us if we say “no,” we over-schedule ourselves because we fear the truths that will arise when we are well-rested and centered. On and on these stories go. Sometimes our stories serve us, but when they become habit, automatic and unexamined, they cause suffering.

Many people come to yoga solely for the physical benefits of the practice, but over time come to appreciate the benefits of exploration of the turnings of the mind. When we understand our mind, we are able to practice ahimsa toward ourselves. As we practice ahimsa toward ourselves, we develop a deeper understanding of the nature of suffering and liberation from it, which we can then extend unconditionally and without reservation to other beings. Once we understand it, we can give it away.

With Memorial Day this week, it is an appropriate time to bring attention to the body’s memory. Our physical bodies are the manifestation of every single thing that has ever happened to us: every thought, action or idea has shaped the body.

We know this to be true in a broad sense. We see changes in the body when we choose to exercise or not exercise or to eat well or not eat well. We know that the body will be stiff after sitting for a long period of time, and that the body will be limber if we have been stretching regularly. Likewise, all of the other billions and billions of actions of the body over a lifetime contribute to the body we have in this moment.

We know also that thoughts can cause changes in the body. Thoughts about that which angers us cause the blood pressure to rise and muscles to clench. Thoughts about that which brings us joy release serotonin in the brain, and cause the body to relax. Thoughts about that which causes anxiety or fear trigger an adrenaline response and shorten the breath. The billions and billions of thoughts we have had in our lives also had a part in shaping the body that we bring to our practice.

So, knowing that, we come to understand that the body has its own memory. Our feet may contain the memories of walking on sand, or standing in a stream or wearing stiff, formal shoes. Our legs may contain the memories of walking city blocks, or trudging through deep snow, or doing squat thrusts. Our knees may contain the memories of kneeling in church, proposing to our spouse, or falling off a bike. Our hips may contain the memories of sexual activity, or dancing or balancing a fidgety toddler. Our bellies may contain the memories of that feeling that something terrible has happened, or nervous butterflies before going on a date, or overeating at Thanksgiving. And on, and on it goes! Each part of the body contains and is shaped by every experience we have ever had.

How does knowing this add to our yoga practice? After all, the very first sutra tells us that yoga begins NOW, in THIS moment, in the present. The goal of the practice is to be fully present IN the the present. What, then, do we make of all of this talk of memory? I believe that it is only when we understand that the unique experiences of our lives, every physical action and every thought, are what brought us to be in this practice in this particular body. When we understand that our practice will never and can never look like any other person’s practice because our body is completely unique, we are free to fully experience the beauty and perfection of the postures as they manifest uniquely in our own bodies. In this way, we can move toward total presence in the practice, and learn to carry this un-self-conscious presence into the rest of our lives.

Attend enough classes, and you’ll start to hear about the Sutras. The Yoga Sutras, 195 aphorisms authored by Patanjalis sometime between 5,000 B.C.E. and 300 A.D., were the first systematic description of the practice of yoga. Sutra means “thread” (it is the root of the word “suture.”), and refers to each of the aphorisms or “threads” of the practice.

Within the Sutras, Patanjalis outlines the eight limbs of yoga, which are:

1. Yamas – the “don’ts” of action
2. Niyamas – the “DOs” of action
3. Asana – practice of the postures
4. Pranayama – mastery of the breath
5. Pratyahara – withdrawal of the senses
6. Dharana – concentration
7. Dhyana – meditation
8. Samadhi – bliss

Notice that the postures – what we tend to think of as the entire practice – are just one part of a broader system of interacting with the world and one’s self! In the coming weeks, I’ll write more about the Yamas and the Niyamas, and more on specific sutras. There is far too much wisdom held by the sutras to contain it in this little website. If the sutras are of interest to you, I recommend the translation by Sri Swami Satchidananda.

One of the first questions many people have about yoga is “how often should I practice?” The answer depends upon whom you ask. Bikram says that you should begin by practicing his ninety minute sequence every day for two months! Many others say that at three classes per week you truly will begin to see the benefits. Of course, one class per week will also bring benefits, as will one class per month. Ultimately, you must honor your body. Go to your edge, always remembering that practice is NOT punishment for an inflexible or weak body, it is the reward for your strong will and intention.

In class, too, we often talk about “going to the edge.” As in the rest of life, sometimes we must push ourselves beyond our limits to find out just how far we can go. Sometimes we get hurt, and sometimes we find reserves of strength, energy, and determination that we never would have found otherwise. As long as we honor our body and spirit, we can not fail.

I ran into a Charm City Yoga regular at a Bikram studio recently, and she asked me which practice I thought was more difficult: the hot vinyasa classes at Charm City Yoga, or the Bikram practice? We chatted for a few moments, and found that we came to completely different conclusions. She finds Bikram more difficult because of the intense heat (about 5-10 degrees hotter than a hot vinyasa class) and lack of breaks in the standing series; I find hot vinyasa classes more difficult because they are never the same, always working the parts of the body in a different way, and in a different order.

I was intrigued by the conversation both as a teacher and a student, because the real question is about what it is, exactly, that makes yoga challenging: the physical practice or the mental discipline? As a teacher, I often see people in my classes who have strong, flexible bodies, but still seem to struggle. I also see students whose bodies are tight and for whom the practice requires exceptional physical effort, yet they do not seem to struggle a bit. Most people are somewhere in between, of course, but it is an interesting and timely reminder to me of the many, many reasons why a student may arrive in my class.

As a student, I find it most challenging to surrender to the practice. That is why Bikram is easier for me. I always know exactly where I am in the practice and what is coming next, so the only thing to which I must surrender is the heat. Like Astanga, Bikram draws “type A” personalities who take comfort in the repetition, at the same time competing with themselves to make their practice stronger.

While there are physical breaks in the hot vinyasa practice -and I use the term “break” somewhat loosely, as it can take a long time for downward dog to feel like a break!- vinyasa classes are never the same twice. Even the teacher who teaches the same sequence most classes may change the pace or change the dialogue at any time. I love the variety and creativity of vinyasa classes. Depending on the teacher and the day, some classes are atheletic and fast-paced, some are slow and focused on alignment, and some are a little of both.

For me, hot vinyasa is my first yoga love and great challenge. For others it is a welcome break from an otherwise regimented practice. I look forward to hearing from other students who practice both: which is more challenging for you?