There is no time I am more fond of being in my own skin than after the sweaty, heady, gleeful and grueling experience of leading asana. Standing before a group of twenty or so stretchy-pant clad bodies, familiar to me in form and face by now; doing by best to convey the particular play with gravity, the insistent handprints as they float up into handstands, reminding them to breathe, stay present, smile and welcome whatever sensations are floating up to meet them on that breath, that moment, dripping down in that morsel of sweat. Laying there, tired little corpses, I thumb through my latest book of poems or pithy tidbits, the final frosting on this lovely cake we've come and baked together, once again. And in that, and the few moments or hours that follow, I feel most like myself. I like myself. This me. This version who stands before a full-length mirror, sweaty, covered in my own salty dew, energized, awakened: viscerally reconnected to a deep well of gratitude, grace, strength, wisdom, even a little bit of verve. She is the woman I most want to inhabit. I want to wear this particular sheath and skin all damn day, every day.
When I studied theater, in what seems like several lifetimes before, I can recall certain moments upon the stage, a hit of transcendance; those infinitesmal windows where the work you'd so painstakingly put in the weeks, months, yeras previous - coalesced in a breath of pure Grace. you'd hit the mark: embodied the thing you set out to embody; raised these humble bones and tissues to a place of otherworldly greatness and design. Shakespeare's tragic heroine, Isben's calm, statuesque epiphany, Glinda the effervescently giddy and Good, or a gospel-singing waitress -- each, in turn, however fleetingly, sprung to life inside your humble cells, occupying your voice, manners, fingers, hips and ways. Through humble entreatry, tenacious grit and dumb repetition -- You'd made them live. And perhaps a soul or two in the tiny audience caught sight of it too. And you silently thanked them for witnessing your humble, fleeting but glorious transformation.
And then the curtain closes. The lights go dim. Cinderella removes those damned awful, cramping glass slippers. And it seems, once more, that everything becomes just as it was.
The glamour and passion of the moment faded. What shimmered mere seconds ago retreats to a dismal, faded gray. Only the memory remains.
And this is how I feel with this practice sometimes. That in that consecrated space of wood floors, light, sticky magic rubber carpets and a sweet mist of perspiration: I get a tiny picture window with a view:of the woman I'd like to be, the world I want to inhabit, the thing I am aching to create.
And then it shuts.
By the wind, or my own doing, there it goes. A gorgeous vista once more shaded from view.
So, it occurs to me, perhaps, I am done fucking around with windows. I want to build a whole damn house. Repair the one I'm in or be ready to smash the wrecking ball through an entire wall, kitchen, bedroom, or bathroom; be ready to move plumbing, light fixtures, stairs and electrcity. I may have to camp in the backyard for a while, whilst this Dream House 'o mine is being built. With these two hands. This heart. Humble stack of bones and fascia and flesh.
For, as we know, as the sages,both modern and ancient have told us:
Yoga is not a means of self-improvement.
Yoga is not a means of self-improvement.
If all you ever gain from the practice is a round, high ass and a few gravity-defying party tricks to show your friends..... you're doing it wrong.
Missing the point.
Far from a product to be consumed, it is a presciption for work. A blueprint, which, when painstakingly, humbly, seekingly, devotedly employed: will shape the raw materials of your heart and life into a thing of unflappable Beauty. The window becomes a door, and then a hearth, a home: a solid spot to knead some bread, retreat from the storm, invite others to bask in its warmth, the glow, a spot to crank up the tunes and dance.
And I am told, the longer this practice continues to call to me, its sages and seekers: the ever-growing wave of wisdom continuing to wash over me: that this place does, in fact, already exist. This beatific, imagined inner real estate I catch snippets and glimpses of, stand upon its threshold whenever I pause to breathe, move, stretch, get quiet and reflect. It's in me. and the mat, and the chants and the four corners of my hands and feet, the ancient texts and modern re-visions, they're just part of the Map. Coalescing in a giant arrow - directing me to my True North. Words, acts and symbols: guiding me home.
