Journaling and Journeying Retreat in Wallowa, OR Now Available at a Special Price

Exciting news!!!   Journaling has been such an important part of my life and my healing, and I'm committed to spreading the message to ensure as many people as possible have access to this transformative practice.  

After receiving so many compelling emails, I have decided to lower the Wallowa Oregon "Journaling and Journeying" trip to cost!  Now you pay $775.00 and it includes a yoga mat, strap, block, all meals, and lodging...everything that is listed on the trip information page, here: http://katehowe.com/wallowa-or

We have limited spots available at this new price, so we hope you'll join us on our upcoming Journaling and Journeying trip  Oct 24th - 28th.

-Kate

I haven't done enough. But I have done the hardest part. I started.

What was healed is hurt, what was light was heavy, what was deep flowing breath is shallow, breathy and undisciplined. Welcome back to Ashtanga... It is always fascinating to me to watch my mind want to walk around in that same circle of judgement.

I've been injured enough and healed enough injuries in the yoga studio to know that this, really, for me, is what yoga is. It's not the "getting good" or "getting strong" or the healing, or the fixing, but it is a powerful medicine that brings what is out of balance into balance.

Today, I felt like this. Again. I'm a bit body dismorphic, I know rationally that it's not actually how I look. But the power of judgement makes it almost real. The reality is that I'm ten pounds heavier than I was last summer. That's all. Just ten. And that's normal when you don't train and you drink wine with dinner. And its fixable, at that. By training, just a little. And smiling. And knowing that if I practice, all is coming.

I step onto my mat and feel the thoughts... why did I let my stomach get like this? How did I let myself get so heavy? Why would I do that to my practice? I feel the pressing inertia of those thoughts, like an evil other, it wants me to fail. It is so powerful, the judgement that we all have. I hate the way I look in my yoga pants, the fact that I have to wear a flowy top not to feel self conscious about my belly, and the flowy top brings to mind the fact that I'm thinking of, and judging my body.

My strong, beautiful body.

Which can be stronger, and more in balance than it currently is. Which becomes strong and in balance by doing exactly what I am doing. Standing still at the front of my mat, I am already winning the battle. Just standing still.

My mind begins to relax, and it begins to come into balance way before the body does. It will take a month for me to recognize myself again. But I'm on the path, just breathing on my mat. From a bit of a distance, without attachment, I see the spiral of judgement, I watch myself try to point out all of my flaws. And then I breathe in, and raise my arms over my head, in my own living room, just my cat sitting there, staring at me, and the sound of my roommate clicking away at his computer at the kitchen table.

There is dirty laundry in the basket in front of me. My kids ski boots are laying on the floor behind me. A pile of clothes to wash and fold and prepare for Replay for next season is on the boy's dresser (which they've drug out of their room) next to me.

As I fold in half and exhale, all of the noise fades into the back ground. The noise about me looking at my middle, the judgement about the cleanliness of my house or my ability to practice regularly for the last five months.

None of it matters. Not really. Because the antidote to all of that noise? Its right here. Exhale. Flat back, in hale, exhale, fold. Gratitude, letting go.

My tyrannical diligence in pointing out my flaws flows out with my breath and suddenly there is only the practice.

Chattaranga (the push up position posture where you lower slowly) is challenging, I've injured my left shoulder and I don't know how it is going to heal. The only thing that healed it last time was months and months of daily Ashtanga practice.

My worried mind, my monkey mind turns back on. "You should have been practicing. Then you'd be more healed and more ready for Teacher Training in 22 days."

I answer calmly, like I'm talking to Bodhi when he's losing his shit and thinking life isn't fair. "But I wasn't practicing. And I can't undo that. And here we are now. And the fact that this hurts is a good indication that we are doing the right thing."

"But, But, But..." my mind tries to argue back, begins to want to tell me that I'm heavier than I should be and that's why its too hard on my shoulder. It's my fault, its your fault, you are to blame! Shouts my cruel mind.

I remember feeling like this, just this fall. I like it when my body is strong and lean and light. It makes it easier to float, to run, to laugh, to sleep, to take my clothes off. A truth about me is that I flux through this. I don't always feel like this. I feel like this about a third of the time. And when I make the compassionate choice, that goes up. The result of being in balance is a healthier body. Which also looks good naked. I know I can't chase the physical form for its beauty. I have to chase it for its function, and let the byproduct be beauty.

I remember telling my Cert 2 candidates this year, "Its really hard to concentrate when someone is yelling at you. And if you hang out with someone who yells at you all day, eventually you either become numb, or you begin to believe them. If the person who is yelling at you all day is you, tell yourself that you'll get back to them when you are finished working hard to get better."

I exhale. I don't answer, I just modify as much as I can, reminding myself that appropriate modifications are a sign of a good, evolved practice, it means I'm capable of listening to my body and finding my place of benefit. My cat winds around my legs and nuzzles my face, tickles me with her whiskers. She's happy I'm playing on the floor. And suddenly, I am. And I'm so glad.

I'm glad because now I feel like this. Beginner's mind lacks judgement, and a child's beginner's mind is full of play, gratitude and fun. I identify more with this image than either of the two above. This feels like a picture of purpose, and the result of purpose leans in either direction on the scale of lean and strong to fat and heavy. But the physical result is a continuum. I have choice about the inner story, the inner drive. I chose this.

I don't make it to Navassana (boat) today, because eventually the chatarangas are too painful. I sit on my mat, wondering how I will find Mula Bundah (the root lock) or Udiana Bundah (the fly-up or abdominal lock) again if I can't work on my vinyassa (flow portion between assana or posture).

I remember my teacher Dylan helping me with just this issue last summer, and I am rueful because I've been here before, I worked through this problem once before. I have two emotional choices in this moment, I can be angry at being back at the beginning, or I can remember how it was I solved the problem in the past and get back to work.

I break out of the regular practice and spend ten minutes struggling through an abdominal sequence. I still haven't done enough. I get up smiling. I practiced on my own. For an hour. Plus abs. I know where my shoulder is now, and what I need to do. I resolve to go to Bikram this afternoon for the work out (Bikram has no upper body supporting postures, so it won't bother my shoulder), and for the yoga buzz, and for the community.

I haven't done enough, but what I have done was the hardest part. I started.

Balance is found right on the edge of risk.

Today, I was in class, and I was working on balancing my body up on my hands in this ridiculous posture, bhudjipidasana. Dylan, the teacher, is helping me progress from the first step to the second step. The lovely thing about this posture is that while it takes strength to stay up there on your hands, the posture is more about balance as you move from one position to another.

Step one. Get your knees behind your shoulders and hook your feet and get them off the floor. 

Step two: Lift and hook your feet. (Damn this woman can LIFT!)

Step Three: Thread your feet through and roll forward so your head, chin or nose is just hovering. 

Today, as I was not quite floating up there on my hands with my feet hooked in front of me attempting to rotate forward slowly and in control, I fell down on my butt. Dylan came over and offered some sage advice.

"If you are falling down backwards, you probably aren't far enough forward to get your head on the floor." True, true. 

Then he said this gem, and I chewed on it for the rest of class. "Balance often exists at the edge of risk." or something like that, forgive me, I am paraphrasing. "In our New Age society, we often make the mistake of thinking we will find balance through some puritanistic behavior. Actually, balance rarely occurs without some degree of risk. You probably know this well, Kate."

Suddenly I'm thinking of the peace of mind I find when I'm on the edge of risk. So many people think that it is an endorphin rush, the sense of fear that keeps us coming back to the "edge". But that's not what I look for. That's not why I love riding my bike on technical terrain or climbing or skiing something steep... I love it because there is a moment where you chose to commit to the risky prospect, and after you are in, past the commitment point, and there is no turning back, your job is to simply be present in the most profound way. 

To feel your body and the earth beneath you and respond, with mindful balance, staying in that beautiful, tenuous place between complete disaster and total freedom. 

You can experience it standing on one foot, you can experience is walking on a slack line, you can experience it riding across a bridge, and dance and in yoga... 

I remember riding my bike down the biggest rock garden I've ever been in, and knowing that the consequences of falling, even though I was completely and totally covered in big hard core DH armor would be severe. Kurt was riding with me at Keystone that day, and he was already through. I didn't have the option of following his line, and in a rock garden like that you are reacting in the moment so much that if you TRY to follow someone else's' line, you are not in your own body, or in your own practice as it were.

One of those moments of bliss. This is me floating in silence over the insanity in Crested Butte, Colorado last year.

I remember realizing that the rocks were huge, and that I knew I needed to keep my speed up because the wheels won't roll over the huge rocks unless they are at a certain speed. I remember lifting my gaze and breathing out, and feeling the bike underneath me like an animal, like a snake moving fluidly and willingly over every single obstacle in its path. I could feel my hind feet and my front feet, like I do in yoga, I was hovering over the bike and it was coming into my body and dropping away, moving like a possessed rocking horse underneath me. The idea of consequence fell away. The idea of protecting myself fell away. There was only the sticky tires finding their way across the rocks and my body asking the bike to go this way and responding when it went another way. 

It was a slow motion conversation, and I was reminded about skiing steeps, or slack-lining across the freezing cold pond. When the terrain gets aggressive, you don't need to add aggression. There is enough Pita going on. You need to live in awareness and touch in that moment, moving with the earth not fighting it, not adding anything extra or unnecessary. 

I remember rolling out the bottom of that rock garden and looking up at Kurt's grinning face. "How you doing?" he asked. 

"Did not die." I answered, looking in awe at the ground I had just covered, and at my bike, and at my own body, and finally at my mind, able for some reason to stay calm and present and balanced on the journey. A huge wave of giddiness hit me. I was really grateful that it hadn't hit me while I was riding. I liked the peace during the journey more than the exuberance after. 

In these moments there is this magnificent feeling of freedom. Its just about your body, for me, its not about aggression or about achievement or about winning... it is about the moment where I choose to risk, but in an intelligent, informed way, because I believe I am ready. And the moment where I step across and over my fear, and hold it gently in my hand, and feel it sometimes pressing all around me, but my breath, calm and steady and sure, holds it away and off of my body. And the moment where time is suspended because there is nothing but the breath and the movement, no time before the decision was made and no time existing after in possible consequence. 

I believe that this risk exists in all forms. For some people, feeling, expressing and receiving love is that same moment of intense risk. Theses people can ski or ride the gnarliest terrain, but feeling their heart beating true for someone else is full of more consequence and fear than riding a rock garden with no armor. Finding balance, finding sensation in that moment of fear, breathing out and looking in the eyes of your love and laying down your fear and exposing your vulnerable heart can be as thrilling, and as challenging.

There is a moment of risk. And just on the other side of that measured risk is a moment of balance. And in that balance, freedom stretches endlessly in both directions.

Below, one of the deepest expressions of risk and balance and beauty I've seen. Enjoy!

I do believe you can be whatever you want to be. As long as that thing is you.

I think we spend a lot of time suffering in pursuit of some ideal, of trying to become an image or an idea of another person we have seen. No matter how hard I work, I am not going to become my friend Ann, and I shouldn't want to. First, "Is not possible." because she is she and I am me. 

We have different... everything. To want to become who Ann is puts me in complete denial of all that I am, and can be. I am not going to have waist length curly brown hair, amber eyes, an eight pack and nearly black skin. Because I have shoulder length blonde hair, nice broad shoulders, a two pack and lighter skin. 

Beautiful. For so many reasons. This is the picture in question.

WHY am I going on and on about Ann (not her real name)? Because I was on Facebook the other day (imagine that), and my friend Ann, an accomplished and amazing yoga instructor, had posted a beautiful photo. Now; she is a truly beautiful woman, she is in the bloom of love, and she is making choices that help her live the life she loves. All of these things help to make her spirit and her soul shine through in a way that shows as a very bright light.

Many people are inspired by her beauty, how down to earth she is, how real, authentic, loving and giving she is, and how hard she works. She is a truly talented instructor, and a great, giving friend. She has a tight circle of like minded, like bodied girlfriends who love life together. 

After Ann posted this photo, many people commented on how beautiful she looked, how happy, how amazing. One person posted that she thought for years that if she worked hard enough, she would have a body like Ann's. And then this photo went up, and it showed this person that no matter how hard she worked, she would never ever attain the transcendental beauty and health that Ann possessed. This person was attempting to compliment Ann by holding her beauty as a ridiculous unobtainable ideal. In the process, she shattered her concept of her own self worth, beauty and potential, maybe without even realizing it. 

This is the trap of comparison. And we are all guilty of it sometimes. It diminishes our ability to feel joy, to be ourselves, to live in gratitude, to have a real and connected relationship with anyone. This kind of thinking leads to retail therapy and plastic surgery, trying to become something that you are not, by virtue of costume or sculpture. 

This might be more what your body looks like. This is a strong posture from the Ashtanga series. Beautiful. 

And be careful here, as well. By saying "becoming something that you are not" does not mean that you are LESS than the person you are looking at or wishing you were like. "Becoming something that you are not" means literally trying to make yourself into something other than YOU rather than shaping yourself into the MOST, BEST you that you can become by honoring your body, your face, your personality, your potential. 

You can develop your talents, and learn new skills, and be inspired down a path that you never knew was open to you (see previous post... Don't become a yoga instructor, everyone is doing that). But to do it in hopes of becoming someone else, and perhaps having their life rather than your own... happiness does not lie in this direction. This is a surefire shortcut to the sadness sickness.

Hair and breast implants, butt lifts, and the best yoga outfit in the studio are not going to change your internal life, who you are and the lessons you need to learn in order to grow. You are carrying your shit around with you no matter how thin, tan, and resurfaced you become. You are you. And how you look on the outside is heavily influenced by how much grace and compassion you have on the inside. Its true. I know you've heard it a million times. But it is true. When you let go of needing to be seen a certain way, the beautiful you begins to be nurtured, and THAT light is as bright as anyones.

You live with your own set of unique lessons that need to be learned. You can live in denial of those lessons by turning your judgement on others, chasing the idea of being someone other than you are, and changing your body by force. 

Or you can surrender into your skin, find a little grace and compassion for your beautiful potential, not only as an athlete, artist or spiri, but as a person. As a friend. As a heart. As someone to connect to, as someone worth knowing.

I feel this way in my body. It doesn't look a lot like this. But it gets healthier all the time, and I am so grateful for that. 

It took me a few years to wrap my head around loving who I am without that meaning that I am complacent. I can see my body as my own now, without overlaying the picture of someone else who seems to have a "better" body. I can see other people's health, and see myself, and know that I can become a healthier me. And strive for that. And be grateful for that.

Yoga tends to attract bodies that are easily suited to it, its fun to do something your body is already good at, already designed to do. My body is heavier, thicker than many yoga bodies. I have short arms and a long torso. I will never be able to jump through my hands because my palms don't touch the floor when I sit up straight. 

THIS IS NOT A TRAGEDY!! As Prem would say, "Is not possible." It doesn't matter. So, I do this little scooty thing where I drag my feet through my hands. Rhada has to do the same thing. Long torso, short arms, incredibly beautiful woman. Will I ever look like my teacher in Aspen, Sharon Capplain? Well, she is a good foot shorter than I am, with a vata body, thin, reedlike, floaty. If I tried to look like her, I would be in such fierce denial of me that I would kill my own light. Extinguish it by trying to become thinner than my body's natural constitution wants me to be.

Speaking of lights that shine bright, This is Sharon. 

Can I make my body healthier? Yes. I can. I can be inspired by Ann's deep practice and the resulting amazing body that she gets to play in all day. It does not discourage me to see how her body continues to develop into a stronger, leaner, more flexible, more grounded, more open vessel. She was not perfect before she took this photo, and she has not come closer to perfection with this photo. She was healthy before and is becoming more herself in many ways that require a lot more work than just eating salad and going to class.

When I saw this photo of Ann, I thought, wow. Look at her becoming even more who she is. She is really tapping into herself, loving herself, growing and becoming. I wonder who I will be if I continue to do that as well? 

And I was saddened by the statement that was posted, although I understand where it comes from. Because when we are motivated from a place of yearning or desire, our ability to work toward a goal is tainted from the start. It isn't truly from or for our own integrity. It is to win, to be like someone else, to be other that we are, to by "better" so we can be "happier". 

I also think that seeing this kind of post can, if she lets it, diminish Ann's happiness. This is the selfish and cruel part of this person posting a comment like this. The poster is punishing Ann to some extent for being brave enough to work hard emotionally, spiritually and physically on herself. This is unhealthy, selfish behavior.

Ann could take on this imposition, feeling guilty for the bounty she has created in her own life. I doubt she will, but it happens. Many people who have this kind of toxic "why can't I have it too" energy try to bring other people who are blissful down, so that their lives are more attainable.

The problem is that you can not co-opt someone else's happiness. No matter how hard she tries, the poster of this jealous comment won't be Ann. And there is no doubt that she is suffering for it. Until she learns that she CAN let go of wishing, and become the most excellent version of herself. The most excellent version of herself today, and tomorrow and the next day. She can look for ways that she can grow and shine and become healthier from wherever she is, whether that's 100 pounds over weight or very injured, or just a little sad and unsure of who she are or what her worth is, or whatever obstacle she is facing. 

Look in the mirror and find the spark of you. You are beautiful. You can become whatever you want to be. As long as that thing is an expression that really truly honors who YOU are. 

But you aren't who I wish you were, I knew that before I even met you.

It wasn't until we rolled up into the Shala this morning, and Isaac's little flip flop clad feet came slapping up to us through the mud, and Bodhi put his helmet on the bike, and I stood up and walked through the mud up the ramp through the new wall which gets higher every day that I realized, kind of, that today was the day that everything, or maybe just two really significant things, were going to be really different.

Thanks, Prem and Rhada. 

We had missed Prem and Rhada's last class. I had, in my mind, had this day as the day we had to say goodbye for so long, that it already had sorrow attached to it.

But its different than I thought it would be. We are staying. Prem and Rhada are the ones that are leaving. They are off to the states to see friends and family for a month and a half. They have a good friend, Dylan, teaching.

I was so glad that there would be a great teacher here, someone who also studied with Pattabhi Jois. Part of me feels a bit sad not to be leaving for India in a few days, like I copped out of that adventure to some extent. Like Bodhi and I should be meeting Saraswati, and studying with her as planned.

But the deed is done, and there are so many good reasons to stay...

"I miss Prem." Bodhi said, and came to a sudden stop at the office. He looked up at me, and looked around. Something was different. Prem has become a Goo Remover for Bodhi. Prem, like Weems, plays with Bodhi, encourages him to be a kid, allows space for him to be who he is emotionally. They both hold space, let Bodhi be Bodhi, while helping him to find out what that means.

Bodhi suddenly seemed a little lost. "I know babe, I miss Prem, too." It was true. It seemed like a good idea at the time to stay....

But I like meeting new teachers and getting a fresh perspective, and Dylan seems really cool, and Prem and Rhada would only have someone really great teach in their shala... so I'm pretty stoked. Thats life, Prem and Rhada need to go do their thing, and its not good to get attached, and there are lots of teachers, and I'll learn something new.

But I miss them already. I hadn't realized how much I looked forward to seeing them every day. How nice it was to have them in my practice, how far into my practice they had come. I am changing because of the practice, and they are so much a part of that. Each in their own way.

Bodhi sat down on the step and started to play with Isaac. Abby came up and handed Bodhi something.  "Here, Bodhi. This is from Prem and Rhada. We missed you yesterday. They gave us these necklaces yesterday. They are just for us, from Prem and Rhada." Bodhi took the necklace and looked at it. He sat really still and turned it over in his hands. He was a little stunned. I expected him just to put it on and keep playing but he looked at it.

His face crumpled a little. "I miss Prem." he mumbled again, looking down at the necklace in his hands.

"Its okay, babe." I said. He put it on, and I went into the shala to set up.

There were only three people there so far, we were early. But it felt like because Prem and Rhada had gone, everyone had gone. On the other hand, it felt peaceful. I looked forward to some open space, I could be a little further up, closer to the front, no one distracting me, a nice view of the Buddha statue sitting in the pond, the light coming in through the bamboo fence.

Bodhi came in to stand next to me for the invocation. He looked up at me. "I miss them, mom." He whispered.

And then Prem and Rhada walked out of their house, backpacks on, ready to go on their next adventure. Bodhi ran through the shala and met them with Isaac and Abby behind the wall. I didn't get to see them say good bye, but I'm so glad they did. It feels like good bye forever, but the really funny thing is... we are here for so long that we will STILL be here when they get back!

Bodhi came back up front smiling, I saw through my feet as I hung upside down waiting for the prayer Prem and Rhada walk happily up to the car. It was funny not to go say goodbye to them. But I didn't want to interrupt the kids. It felt selfish to go get my own goodbye when the kids wanted to give their love.

Dylan came to the front. "Samasditihi" he said. Same program. This is how we begin. "Ommmmm" he chanted. Prem's deep resonating, confident voice was missing. In its place was a surprising sound. Dylan's Om was different. Wait a minute. Was EVERYTHING going to be different?

It was beautiful. Dylan began the prayer and he has a lovely voice. He sings it, higher in pitch and more sing-song. Bodhi sang along, not phased. I was equal parts entranced and confused.

Funny that, because in all my yoga practice I've never had the same teacher over and over and over again. There are usually three or four people who guide practice, and I just go to the Bikram studio and take from whoever is teaching.

Mysore practice is so different, you are on your own program on your own mat practicing at your own pace with your own breath. To have the same person show up in your bubble of consciousness and correct you and then walk away is soothing to some extent. There is trust there.

Today, I began practice and I felt the deep and profound silence in the room. It occurred to me that the room is always this quiet. That there is only the sound of breath and the plop of feet. It occurred to me that we are all moving very slowly. That this almost looks like TaiChi.

And then it occurred to me that even though I'm practicing meditation, staying on my mat mentally and physically, and working on my breath, hearing an ocean in my head, its usually really really loud in the room to me.

I haven't heard the silence before.

My mind has been too busy. Prem and Rhada make corrections, their movements and voices are part of the rhythm of practice. It was absolutely SILENT in Dylan's Mysore practice. I felt like time slowed down.

"Watch your breathing, your bundahs. Mulah Bundah, Udiana Bunda..."

Suddenly I missed Prem! Where was my teacher? Who was this guy, pretending to be my teacher, walking around in his shala?? What had I been THINKING? Why hadn't I gone to India?? If I was going to take from someone else, surely it should be someone from India!! From the source! I watched my mind go on a little judgement trip.

I found my breath and continued my practice. Give him a chance. Give yourself a chance. Where is all this fear coming from?

Dylan walked past me, helping other people in Down Dog, but not me.  (Was I on my mat and in my practice??) Where were Prems gentle, understanding hands, that ask so much of me? Where was fierce Rhada, asking me for more, but to know when it was enough? Where were my teachers???

I struggled with this all the way through the warm up. I got to the middle of Sun B and the breath and the rhythm took over. It was automatic suddenly, to some extent, but that was also a good thing, the physical practice was pulling me out of my judgemental mind and onto my mat. I found my breath.

I worked with Rhada in my mind. "STAND on your FEET, Kate. Lift your HIPS! Come ON!" I found myself a little.

The room, however, was loud again in my internal struggle. I reached for the breath. I let go of needing to hear Rhada and tried to just feel the posture, incorporate my notes, find the silence. The next flow stretched out long, things were slowing down.

Suddenly, my back was moving, feeling longer. My shoulders were stretching open. Dylan was adjusting me. His touch, like his voice, was light, melodious. I listened. My body moved with the suggestion.

He came back again later. We had a chat about my bind, he coaxed my knee gently down, a posture Ive been struggling to find depth in was suddenly there. He came back later. He sat down and we chatted about Navassana. I have trouble making my abs strong. Mula Bundah not withstanding, I use my psoas in this posture and I can't seem to make my abs strong.

Dylan had me lay on the ground and try a minuscule movement with my back. My weak, unused abs fired all at once. I could make change from here.

At the end of practice, I left the shala feeling whole, feeling light and happy and floaty. I still miss Prem and Rhada. But I'm grateful for the space they made for us to practice in. Im grateful for the foundation they laid for me to learn from another teacher as well. I'm grateful for the sudden shift, for the attachment practice, for the struggle to let go and the struggle to connect and the struggle to be open. We can not practice this enough in life.

And I'm so grateful for the beautiful, gentle teachings of Dylan. I can't wait to go back in the morning and practice again, in a silent room, with a quieter mind, open to a new teacher. Let the next unfolding begin!

Its Just Another Posture

So the ironic thing is that right after I wrote that post about accepting where you are and not needing more, I was asked to do Bhujapidasana. Rhada told me that I would do it on Sunday, after the rest day. 

Bhudjapidasana. Part One. 

I spent all day Saturday with the thought in the back of my mind. Would I be able to do it? Did she give it to me because she thinks that I think that I want to move on? I really do only want to move on if it is appropriate, and i trust my teacher completely to be the one to tell me if its time or not.

One of the things that I’ve learned is that what I’m capable of and what is appropriate to do in a long term day to day practice may be two different things. Could I haul myself up into a headstand? Yup. But I am not strong enough in my shoulders, forearms, back and core to keep myself lifted, to keep my head just barely touching the floor. So I don’t do them yet. And I wont do them until I’m so strong and so ready that I just kind of float on up there. 

Sunday morning came, and it was one of those random “stiff” days, where I just felt kinda tight. My “rest” day here is not truly a rest day. Bodhi and I get on the motorbike and ride through heavy traffic to Kuta Beach right after practice on Friday. He goes surfing and I either surf, swim, or get some work done on my tattoo. We mission around Kuta getting food and mosquito smoke, sleep badly in our hot, still, shitty fan room at the Sukah beach inn, and do it all again the next day. 

We head back Saturday evening, usually in a rainstorm after Bodhi is done surfing. By the time I hit my bed in Ubud Saturday night, I’m wiped. Sunday’s practice is usually a jolt of plugging back in to my breath and my practice after the intensity of our two day break. There might be a lesson for me here, as well. 

So Sunday’s practice was slow, tight. I was okay with that, I’ve learned to stop wishing and just find out where my body is on that day at that time and work from there. I got to Navassana, and Rhada came over. 

“Okay, now jump your legs past your shoulders, feet in front of your hands. Bend your elbows, and hook your right foot over your left foot in front of your face. Go.”

I did. I went. 

And I did not fall over, and I breathed and it felt good. Challenging, and good. 

And as I was sitting there breathing, I realized that it was just as challenging as Janushershassana A had been for me six months ago. Its just another pose. Not even that its the “next” pose, because that implies some sort of linear progress, but just a pose. And as I was propped up there, I saw this infinite number of poses and modifications stretching out ahead of me, and I was at this little point somewhere along the line, at a place where my body was challenged. 

Janushersasana A. This used to be impossible for me. I still have work to do here, but as Prem would say, 'Is possible."

I came out and sat down. I was satisfied, there is something nice about being ready to challenge your body and meet the challenge. I felt good, strong, safe and happy. I went into my finishing postures.

Later in the series, I was rolling back into Hallasana, and I felt that my back and neck were still kind of tight. I decided not to do the full closing sequence. I’ve always known to listen to my body and adjust my practice. Rhada makes me be even more diligent than I have been in the past about that. 

As I rolled out, I pulled a muscle in my neck. Its posterior scalene, on the left side, a main postural muscle that was severely challenged by my surgery. Its weak, but it has been becoming so much stronger. I’m not sure why it tweaked today, if it had anything to do with trying a new posture, or if it was just in the right position to be tweaked and it would have gone anyway. No one can tell.

The result of that is that I’m in big pain again. Three days of sensations similar to post surgery. There is fear there. Anxiety. My body has been healing, I want it to continue. Yoga is supposed to be good for me, why am I hurting? 

Because I’m human, and I have some muscles that are still healing, and honestly, there is a part of my physicality that will always be affected by my surgery, even though I’ve come so far. 

Halasana, plow posture. 

The next day, I went through the whole series, eager to get to the shoulder binds, hoping they would stretch my neck out. They did, but I was fatigued from pain. This was not my place of benefit. 

The next day, my practice was just the sun salutations A and B. That was my place of benefit, I had no wish or desire to even know another posture existed. With Rhadas patient and gentle help, I focused on my breath. I am trying to cultivate this juicy, incredible sound that Rhada can make in her throat, this warming breath. 

And so on and so on. Now, I’m back into the seated postures, my neck is healing. But slowly. Its just a posture, the one I’m currently doing. There is no point of having a goal, that takes the purpose of this healing practice and throws it right out the window. 

I'll start tomorrow, and other bullshit we believe.

A few days ago, I caught myself being lazy. I wonder how often I have this pattern happen in life and don’t notice it. I discovered it during Mysore practice, where the volume seems to be turned up on my awareness so much that my consciousness is shouting in my ear while everything else is very very silent. 

The room has only the sound of deep, slow breath, and the plop plop plop of bare feet jumping back and landing softly on the hardwood floor in the humid jungle. It sounds like there is an ocean in the distance, and as though you’ve walked through a field of large toads who are all hopping away. Otherwise, its very still in the shala. 

As I went to jump back, being my own little barefoot toad in the jungle, I noticed that I wasn’t crossing my feet the “other” direction. I tend to cross my feet with the right one on top of the left one every time and jump back. 

Switch feet, frog!

A month ago, I took a workshop with Prem and Rhada, my yoga teachers, and they asked us to please switch feet every time so that the body is balanced. 

In my infinite wisdom, I am not doing that. In fact, I’m avoiding doing that. A few days ago, this whisper that says “Is this the same foot as last time?” turned into a very loud voice. 

“SWITCH FEET.”  Oh. I hadn’t really realized I wasn’t. Only that’s not quite true. Somewhere, part of me knew that I wasn’t switching feet. Its hard to switch feet. I jump back much better with my right over my left. 

My awareness had been something like “Switch feet! Oh, I am already jumping back, this is a good one, I feel strong. I’ll make sure I switch feet tomorrow. That will be next on my list of disciplines I change in my practice.”

But its been a month. When does tomorrow start? It makes me wonder... in what other aspect of my life am I using this avoidant attitude? Do we all? 

Well, I’ve broken my diet, I might as well eat my way to the bottom of the bag. Well, I’ve picked up a cigarette even though I havent smoked in five days, I’ve blown it, I’m a smoker again, I’ll have to start again tomorrow. 

Bullshit. Bullshit to us all. 

Sit back down. Cross your feet the other way. Struggle through the “hard” side. This is the only way you will get strong. Not by doing it tomorrow, or in the seated series later, even in the next jump back. This moment. You have the power to make a different choice in this moment right now. 

Let go of needing to be right. Let go of protecting your ego and your anger. Let go of explaining endlessly why you’ve done it this way or that, and when you plan to do it better. Hug the person you just yelled at. Pick up the pen you keep putting down. Sit back down at the editing machine. Pick your face up and smile at the person across from you. 

We can all be better. 

Don’t become a yoga instructor, everyone is doing that.

One of my friends said this to me about a year ago. He meant well. He is a very linear, logical person, who sees the big picture quite well. 

Jacques Cousteau. Why become a Marine Biologist? There can never be another Cousteau. 

But I thought about it, and turned it over in my mind for a while. He was giving me big picture “the market is flooded” kind of advice, and from that perspective, it is a comment that makes sense. 

But I think we can stop ourselves from having experiences when we think this way. I remember as a child, feeling like my sister was the one who was the photographer, so I shouldn’t do that, explore that. She said she wanted to shoot photographs for National Geographic. That sounded amazing to me, just like something I’d want to do. But I felt like I would be taking her dream if I also did it. 

What happened to being inspired? What happened to mentorships, internships, apprenticeships, where you sit at the feet of the one who did it before, and copy them exactly until you understand the whole of it? 

Reinhold Messner.  "After Messner, the mystery of possibility was gone;
there remained only the mystery of whether you could do it."

- Ed Viesturs

I remember when I was in third grade, I wanted to climb Mt. Everest one day. My principal had gone to Nepal and brought back images of that sacred mountain, and I wanted to climb up it. I wasn’t afraid. I wanted to make my body and my spirit strong enough to stand on the top. 

By the time I was old enough to really begin to think about it, the Scott Fisher expedition had happened. There was a huge backlash that normal people shouldn’t be climbing big mountains, that this had happened because a socialite had paid $60,000 to have her hand held up a mountain that she had no business being on. 

I was a member of the AMGA, I had started going religiously to meetings, I was beginning to focus and hone my climbing skills. I didn’t want to be part of the problem, part of the hoard. The fact that now “everyone could do it” meant that people shouldn’t. That all the “real” people who should already had, and everyone else was an invalid tourist. 

Now, I’m in Ubud, Bali which is apparently a now-famous yoga destination for the freaks and weirdos and truly dedicated as well. They filmed a movie here, Eat Pray Love, all about a woman finding herself. I havent seen it or read the book but I still chafe when people tell me my life is like the movie. 

Krishnamacharya was an original. I'm not even from India, I'm a Lulu lemon lemming. How can I be unique?

But really, why does it matter? If I had known about the movie, would I not have come here, because other people had come before me and it was something that was “done”? When I see that from this perspective, I think about all the incredible experiences I would have missed out on. 

When it was the 80s, I was really into Punk Rock. One of the lessons I learned about being associated with that group was that it was really important to be unique, different, and first. To know the new bands, to love the classics, to eschew the flash in the pan popular sell outs. We spent so much time judging and worrying about being judged in order to make sure that we were unique that we missed out on being us. Which is what is truly unique. 

Ansel Adams is so unique that there are filters and effects in Photoshop named after him. If you aren't going to work your magic like a real artist, and you have photoshop, you don't count, right? Why bother trying? Its been done. 

This moment is unique. You in this moment is unlike what anyone else has been in this moment, even if you are following in the footsteps of someone who came before you. 

Let go of needing to judge your worth and the value of following your passion against how others view its originality. There have always been painters. Photographers, Writers, Yoga Teachers, people who became ex-pats. The market is flooded with them. The challenge is to embrace what has come before, learn all about it, and then bring you, your unique self to what you love. 

Who cares if someone else did it and they made a movie? We get to do it, too. We do it on a scooter, together, my 9 year old son and I. We make our own version of bliss, with thanks to those who came before. 

So become a yoga teacher if you like. No one has done it before quite like you will. Not even if you copy the dialogue exactly. 

Unstick the idea that you are stuck.

Sri K. Pattabhi Jois in Samasditihi

“Are you doing advanced postures yet?”

One of my friends who I started studying Ashtanga with sent me this message yesterday. He’s not the first. And as I’ve been studying, looking on the internet at old films of Ashtanga practitioners, I have come across comments about moving along in the Ashtanga series. I often see the comment “I’ve been stuck at Navassana for 18 months...”

Lots of times this comment isn’t complaining, it usually is said with gratitude for the teacher that held them there. But its followed by a celebration. “Now I can do this posture and that posture and the one after it, too!”

Bodhi watches class

Perhaps I should clarify. In a traditional Ashtanga Yoga practice, there are six set sequences of postures. The first is called primary. Many people never get past second series if they practice daily for their whole lives. 

If you do your daily practice with other people, its called “Mysore practice”, named after the town of Mysore, India, where Sri K. Pattabhi Jois started the Ashtanga Yoga Research Center. 

In Mysore practice, everyone does the same series. The room is full of people, some beginners at the back, and generally, as you move forward in the Shala, people have more experience. People in the front of the room might have some third or fourth series postures sprinkled in. 

Everyone practices together, but you are all moving with your breath, so people are doing the same thing, but at different times. More advanced students keep going, but it takes beginner students the same amount of time, because we move slower or take more breaths. 

My friend Carina and I ended up in synch for a while

The teachers walk through the room and work with you on whatever posture you are on. You are supposed to know the sanskrit names of each posture and the order in which you do them. When you get to a posture that is too difficult for you to do, the teacher stops you. That is the end of your practice, every day, until they decide your body, mind and breath are ready for the next posture. That it would be beneficial for you to learn the next posture.

Because we are human animals, we feel rewarded for hard work when we get another posture added to our practice. People get frustrated when they can’t move on, thrilled that they are singled out when they can. Every one struggles with trying to not have a goal, everyone wants recognition. If you work hard, on your breath, on your bundah, on your drishti, on your movement, on your energy, on your intention, you should get another posture. 

But just like going on a diet, just because you join a gym for three weeks and show up diligently and wear your new exercise clothes and work really hard does NOT mean you will look in the mirror on week two or three or six and see much difference. Change, important, lasting change, happens slowly, from the inside. 

I am stopped at Navassana. This is a common stopping place. I came into the Shala worried that my practice would be sloppy but confident that I was strong enough to do all the chatarangas in the practice (there’s lots of them, they are lower down pushups). Turns out everyone is strong enough to do all the chatarangas. Turns out there were people in the class who were on second and third series. 

Navassana. Boat pose. Five times, five breaths. Don't sink your boat!

I knew I was going to be stopped at a posture, I was grateful at first that it was as far along as Navassana. I knew I had a lot of work to do the first day. I couldn’t remember the series, to begin with. 

I thought for sure after a week of hard work, I’d get to do the next posture, which is an arm balance. I love arm balances. Because you don’t have to be strong in your arms. Just well balanced. They make you feel like a rockstar. Like you are capable of anything. Its like all the reward of being able to walk on your hands without actually needing to go upside down. 

But a week went by, and I still was working on my Updog. “Charge your FEET, Kate! Come ON!” Rhada would say, and come over and pull on my feet and slap the backs of my legs. “Why don’t you use your legs???”

I don’t know. I thought I was. 

“Where is your BREATH? BREATHE!”  I thought I was. 

“If you don’t close your mouth, I’m going to get the duct tape.” Prem said one day. “You know duct tape? On your mouth. That’s where I’m going to put it.” 

I thought my mouth was closed. How is it that I can’t tell if my mouth is open or closed? How is this possible that I can’t keep Ujaia breath through the whole practice? Don’t I know how to breathe? 

Mel, super twisty and inspiring, in the grey.

Where in the world was my awareness? I was unknowingly cocky when I came to class. People in the past have complimented me that I have a nice practice, that I look focused and like I am working hard. Giving my all. I feel that, have felt that in my practice. 

Ether this place is a whole new ballgame, or I have awareness of breathing, but not during activity, or being somewhere new has exposed all my defaults or some sort of combination of all of that is going on. Whatever it is, I needed to lose my ego, gain strength, gain flexibility and clean my sloppy practice. Starting with learning the names and knowing how to do updog. 

About a week ago, I had the first of several micro breakthroughs in my practice. My feet, it seems, are stronger and more flexible. I have gained discipline in them, and with that discipline has come some strength and freedom. My updog is more powerful and light, connected, and grounded. My feet are charged. I am using my legs. I didn’t even know what that MEANT until I found my self floating on an inhale and staring up at the ceiling. 

Sharon, my teacher in Aspen, has told me about this sensation. “Eventually, with the breath, and the bundah, you will just feel like you are floating.” 

“Are you kidding? I feel like I weigh a million pounds and I will never float anywhere.” I thought. I had been carrying around the weight of this story, of this belief that I have a big, fat body. That even when its healthy it will be fat. That I can’t be light. That I have to accept my Kapha heaviness and cary it around in extra bags all over the place. I am not a sparrow or a pidgin. 

But while that is true, I am a larger person, holding onto that story has held me in this lie. It has told me that my core is weak, that my arms are strong, but I’m so heavy I can’t lift myself. I’m trapped in an idea of my body that has nothing to do with my ability or possibility. Skiing is possible for me because heavy is a benefit. My legs are strong. I have good balance. 

But maybe, maybe that’s all a story. Maybe if I practice, all will come. Maybe if I show up, every day, and breathe and move from my core, my body will unwind its story and let go and have permission to become what it wants to be. Lighter. Stronger. More flexible. 

Bhujapidassana. The next posture in the series. 

A few days ago, I was having breakfast after practice with Mel, a beautiful woman from Switzerland who can put both her feet behind her head. “They are so wonderful.” she said, referring to our teachers, Prem and Rhada. “I come here and they just clean my practice, you know? Take out all this extra nonsense that is like dirt on my practice.”

I nodded. This is exactly what it feels like to me now. I do not in any way feel stuck at Navassana. I feel like I have SO MUCH work I can and need and want to do in each posture and in each transition and in each breath allll the way to Navassana. 

While I still think doing arm balances would be cool to feel again, I’m not in a hurry to get there. Because I don’t want to fall on my face, or hurt myself or rush my body. Because there is no hurry. Because I am where I am. And where I am is a beginner. I need to learn the basics. I need patience for the foundation.

First, I needed to find my core, my center, mulah bundah. I needed to ground through that place. I’m still working on that, but now its there more than its not. 

Next, I needed to learn how to breathe. I needed to find my inhale, slow and full, in every posture. I needed to slow waaayyyy down until I could move fluidly with that breath. Now I am finishing with the front of the room, like I have a full long practice, even though I am stopped at Navassana. 

In order to work on this, I needed to step over my ego, in every posture, after every class. Not wish for more, not want another posture, not want to hear “Good job, Kate.”

There are no mirrors in Ashtanga. Just feel your body over time. 

And I found that the sooner I laid my ego down, the deeper my practice became. The cleaner it became. A few days ago, I had the experience of bliss in class. This ecstatic sensation as I rolled through my feet into updog. My body is changing. My practice is being scrubbed clean, all the extra sloppiness being flossed away. 

Why would I want to add postures when there is so much work to do in the ones I already have? My body is at its place of benefit stopping at Navassana. I am getting lighter, stronger and more flexible. My shoulders are opening, my hips are opening, my spine is opening. I can twist, I can stand solidly. 

I am finding length, space, and benefit, in each breath, in each movement, in the pursuit of depth and correct practice in each move I make, all the way to Navassana. I am sure, if I keep practicing, that eventually my place of benefit will be further down the series. I see people in front of me who can do beautiful and amazing things with their bodies, and it inspires me to keep working. 

Because I am doing beautiful and amazing things with my body. And I want to keep feeling that: the health, the strength, the opening, the learning, the unwinding, until I am an old, old lady. 

When I get there, to a place where my body can benefit from it, I’m sure my teacher will encourage me to add a posture, because my body is ready for it. 

Until then, I’m grateful to clean my practice and stop at my place of benefit, Navassana. 

There is so much time, and so much to be grateful for right right right where I am now. 

The lessons before the lesson begins. Or, loving someone who is gone.

This morning, we all went into the Shala for 8am practice. As usual, Bodhi and his young friends Issac and Abbie came in and stood next to me all in a line for the invocation. Like little devas, they flit around the shala, settling in to visit and bringing great energy to all of us. 

Before we began, our Guru, Prem, asked us to sit down. He had something to tell us. This is kind of an unusual request. If there is something to be said, generally his beautiful partner, Rhada, makes whatever announcement, and then we begin with the usual invocation. 

We all took a seat. Prem began to try to speak, but there was only silence. He took a breath and settled quietly into himself. We waited, wondering. When Prem has something important to share, there is quiet. He does not rush. He listens for his mind and heart to quiet. When I watch, it is like I am watching the human emotion settle like sand to the bottom of the lake, and for space to open up. He becomes taller, but not by straining. When that space is there, he speaks. Watching him prepare to share is as big a lesson as whatever he is about to say. 

He tried to speak a few times, he didn’t seem to struggle against it, trying to get it under control, so much as open his mouth to speak and realize his heart wasn’t prepared. More had to settle. We sat quietly. What could have happened to rock Prem so hard?  Bodhi waited, still, beside me. Abby looked at me, her six year old heart concerned for her friend Prem. 

Prem opened his eyes. “Today is the day that Guruji died.” he said, unable to keep the sadness from his voice. “Four years ago today.” 

Prem and Sri K. Pattabhi Jois

He looked up at the photo on the post at the front of the shala. His loss laid bare. Pattabhi Jois was like a father to Prem, he had been his teacher, his guiding heart, his Goo Remover, since 1979. He had touched every part of Prem’s life. Patabi Jois had pushed him, and ignored him, bothered him, and worked with him, and loved him, just like a father. 

Prem took a breath and told us a little about their connection, about how hard it was to be without him, about how much Patabi Jois had touched their lives both Rhada’s and his. He shared as he struggled at the front of the class. 

One of the things that’s magic about Prem is that he can talk to a whole room of people, some of whom he just met today, like he’s talking to a bunch of friends over lunch. One of his many gifts is transparent authenticity. He showed us his loss and his love for Guruji. It was simple, beautiful, sad and grateful. It looked just like love. 

“Today,” he said, “I want to honor all the teachers. They are in front of us and in back of us like an infinite mirror in a fun house. Pattabhi Jois, Krishnamacharya, before him all the way back to Patanjali. And before him, and before him, all the way back to Vishnu, Bramha, Shiva and their Shaktis.” He squeezed Rhada’s hand. She balances him. He honors her for it. 

“Would that be okay? If we dedicate our practice today to Guruji?” he looked at us, searching. Of course. 

As we chanted our gratitude for the teachers, and their teachers, and the infinite lineage of teachings we can receive, I found my own face wet with tears. It wasn’t the loss that I was looking at. It wasn’t longing or attachment, necessarily. It looked like emptiness. What it looked like to me was that Guruji was no longer there for Prem to express gratitude to. And Prem, in that moment, missed him.

I know this feeling. To be full of love, to have so much thanks to give, and to have the vessel you want to pour it into to be incapable of receiving. 

Human attachment is a difficult thing. How do we love, how do we give, how do we intertwine, teach each other, hold each other up, boost each other over obstacles, hold each other’s feet to the fire, and not miss each other when we are gone? 

I think its okay to miss someone. Bodhi and I talk about this a lot. Missing someone means you love them. When you miss them a lot, it is an indication of how strong your love for that person is. If, in that space, we can find gratitude to have felt connection that deep, we are truly blessed. 

If, in the space of missing we begin wishing, this is when attachment begets suffering. I don’t believe that experiencing loss mean you are experiencing attachment and that is a BAD thing. It means you are feeling your human heart. 

We are human. We are meant to feel ourselves, this is how we learn, how we grow, how we become more than we are. There is loss. Feel it. Welcome it. It is now your teacher. To have had a love so great, a guide so strong, a teacher so important vanish from your life is devastating. He is gone. No amount of wishing will change that. But in that hollow, echoey space where Guruji used to be, there is the edge of longing, but also an enormous space, a space big enough to fill with gratitude. With the gratitude of Prem and Rhada, who learned at his feet, and with the gratitude of all the students in an infinite line who sit at their feet. 

I was so grateful that Bodhi was in the shala this morning. I don’t know how much of this is leaking in, but some of it does. And today, Bodhi, who struggles with lessons, saw someone he respects enormously have gratitude for teachers. 

Prem’s voice grew stronger as he chanted the opening prayer. The shala filled with voices. This morning, Prem taught all of us, but today we learned about loss and love and gratitude before we even came to the front of our mat.