Hare Hare Harmonium

The package from India arrived all wrapped in shiny purple paper with tiny flowers, like the gift wrap of a really great seven year old's birthday party.   I set it down in the kitchen and began tearing off the packaging and after about a half hour of cutting through about ten layers of tape, cardboard, styrofoam and protective packaging (I am definitely impressed with the thoroughness and consideration to keep this baby safe on its journey from Delhi to Ohio), I could finally see the top exposed. A wooden rectangle, it looked like a shiny bald head still surrounded by the white styrofoam.  With this reveal, my speed increased - I couldn't wait to get this thing free!  I finally got the last bit of packaging loose and lifted the rectangle shaped instrument up out, a waft of sandalwood hitting my nostrils.  I set it in my lap, in awe of its beauty and potential.  After years of desiring a harmonium and months and months of research, asking fellow harmonium musicians question after question and online comparison shopping, I had finally become the proud owner of my own brand new shiny harmonium!

But I had absolutely no idea where to begin with it.   After I figured out how to open it (which took longer that I'd like to admit), I pressed down the middle C key and pulled in the bellows for the first time.   Urrrrrrrrr......  I smiled so big!  I was so excited! I spent about an hour just getting to know it on my own, playing a few keys and making up a little song, but realized quickly that just because I play piano doesn't mean I can't benefit from some specific instruction on this wondrously different instrument.

It came with a free (an aptly titled) "How to play Harmonium" booklet.  I sat down with the harmonium next to me and looked through it, but since the majority of it is in Sanskrit and it looks like it was printed in 1984, I knew my next step was to find a more modern, accessible instruction.   (Though I did find it very amusing that at the end of the book were several western sheet music pages for what were described as "popular songs."  These included Red Temperton's Baby, Come to Me, The Bangles' Eternal Flame and a random David Lynch song from the Twin Peaks soundtrack. So, I was right on it being made in the 80s.)

I had researched the Bhakti Breakfast Club at Kirtan Central awhile back and watched a few of the introductory videos.   I had first heard of Daniel Tucker through his Kirtan workshops at Kripalu when I was there.  I had thought that perhaps I could attend one weekend intensive, but with the baby and work, I knew that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.   So, here are several courses he teaches all online.  I signed up and am ready to go!   Ever the academic nerd, I can't wait to see what I learn!

Creating Sacred Space

Have I mentioned before how difficult it is to find time for asana practice? And when you do have the rare half hour to yourself, you either fall asleep before you even get the mat rolled out or opt instead for the decadent combo pleasure of ice cream enticing you from the kitchen and RuPaul's Drag Race.  Or maybe that's just me.

More than time, I've found that finding space is of equal issue.  With a tiny cottage of a house, what was once my yoga space/living room/piano room is now all of that with a pack n play, high chair, swing and assorted other baby gear.  And a baby of course.   The most beautiful, perfect Buddha baby that I still am in complete awe of every moment.   A baby that is laughing, clapping, standing, dancing, teething and doing all those first little unique baby things that fill me with a pure joy that makes me believe in the Divine with a fierceness I never would have imagined.

And though it goes without saying that I wouldn't trade all this for the world, sometimes I miss having a space for yoga, that special mojo vibe area for my practice.

Tonight, I knew I needed to find some way to get my mat out. While Daddy watched her and got her ready for bed, I cleared all the patio furniture from our deck, lit some candles and incense and popped in Yoga Shanti with Laurel on the CD player.   Within about 30 seconds, I felt the shift.  You know the one - the one you get when you start really breathing for the first time all day.  The one when you elongate along your mat and sigh, "Hello beautiful body, I forgot all about you today."  This one was special though because within these 30 seconds, I realized I had recreated my sacred space without even intending to.  I hadn't even considered that I could have it anywhere else, but here I had just created an environment conducive to such peace.  The smell of the incense, the sound of the birds and wind through the trees and Laurel's soothing voice and chimes all carried me into my sadhana space.

After my savasana, I rolled the mat back up and put the patio furniture back in its place. It's not permanent (which is perfectly Buddhist, right?) but it is perfect for a Yoga Mama with an 11 month old who more often than not only has a few minutes anyway.    If you're reading this, I encourage you to reflect on ways you can create a little spiritual space for yourself in ways (or spaces) you hadn't considered.   Sometimes just a candle, a fabric, a certain CD or meaningful icon can transform mundane space into something special instantly.   Create your own sacred space however you can!  Om Shanti.

To Guru or Not to Guru?

As I hiked towards the Ashram meditation hall, the unusual sound of a motor vehicle rumbled through the woods.  Into the clearing, a tiny aqua blue Suzuki sidekick sputtered down the dirt road. A russet grandfather’s face turned towards me through the rolled down window.  His enormous palm lifted near his long, gray beard, his slender fingers extraordinarily long. He waved at me enthusiastically and smiled, then honked the little horn, beep beep. It was…the Guru, His Holiness Sri Swami Satchidanada. 

In my early twenties, I loved Yoga with a youthful, unbridled passion.  But I had not thought too much about this Guru business.  Literally a “Dispeller of Darkness,” the Guru shines a kind of spiritual flashlight into the darkness of your emotional world. All I knew was that he was a bearded Indian guy who wore orange robes and had led the people at Woodstock to chant “OM” (which was pretty cool to me at 23). However, it was apparent he was a very powerful and highly venerated figure. Every room had portraits of him, his face wise and serious.  The teachers spoke of him constantly, their face aglow whenever his name was invoked. 

Gurus often came from places of immense poverty in India during the 60s and 70s, with less than a few dollars in their pockets.  Almost overnight, many became spiritual sensations.  Droves of hippie followers began kissing their feet and bowing to them, looking to them as eastern celestial beings of mystic perfection. Too often, the pendulum swing of extreme poverty to complete adoration resulted in corruption and a plummet head first into drug and alcohol abuse and sex scandals, the same kind of tragic fall has happened more times than one can count with spiritual leaders. Was I naïve to think I could just do my Yoga and bypass all the Guru giddiness? Was he a genuine spiritual teacher or was he a charismatic charlatan I needed to be wary of?

A few days later, after cleaning the hall from ceiling to floor, we gathered for our first meeting with Satchidananda. He walked slowly into the room clad in his signature orange robes and long beard and sat on a throne-like wicker chair at the front of the room as our Hatha teacher, Satya, gave him a small glass of tea.  He gave a brief talk, his voice calm, steady, speaking of meditation and how we must see ourselves clearly if we are going to have peace.  After his talk, he bowed in Namaste (hands together in prayer position in front of the body) and left a room full of beaming smiles.  I didn’t know if it was all the smiling, the Guru’s presence, or the fact that the space was so darn clean, but I had to admit, the room felt really good, “charged” as my Pagan friend would say.  We all took our time standing up, wanting to absorb this feeling as long as we could.  I thought, Well, that wasn’t so bad after all.

Then Satya turned to us, “If you’d like to take Prasad, line up over here.”  She held up his half empty tea glass towards the ceiling, then carried the glass gingerly, as if in a procession, back to where a line (now full of about 20 or so people) was eagerly forming.  One by one, Satya poured the tea from the glass into their open, cupped palms.  I watched with a mix of fascination as they slurped up the liquid with fervor. 

I looked around and saw Tori, a snarky New Yorker, whom I had already made friends with earlier in the week.  We shared a common interest in Shiva Rea, travel and sarcasm.  We both stood back, still as statues, watching the tea train in front of us.  She rolled her eyes at me, which made me smile.  At least I wasn’t the only one who was perplexed.

We had several other encounters with the Guru, each more confusing to me than the last.  I still wasn’t sold on the Guru veneration.  During our graduation ceremony, we received our diplomas and each of us had a moment to bow or kneel in front of Swami.  With mixed emotions, I made my way onto the stage, accepting my certificate.  I bowed towards him and thought simply, Thank you for your teachings.  As I stood back up, we locked eyes for a moment and I felt a rush of energy shoot up my spine into my head.  A little dizzy, I made my way off the stage, feeling like I had just been zapped. 

Almost exactly a year after my Ashram stay and teacher certification, Swami Satchidananda “dropped his body” and went into mahasamadhi. In my mind, I could see the Ashram devotees walking around, tears streaming down their faces, hugging each other in solace, having prayer and meditation circles for his journey to the other side.  I felt guilty for not feeling more than I did.

I continued to practice yoga religiously for the next several years.  One afternoon in a spring cleaning feng shui attack, I came across a slim copy of Kailash Journal, a diary Satchidananda kept of his pilgrimage to the sacred Mt. Kailash in Tibet.  I picked it up and read it ferociously, immersing myself in his treacherous eight hundred mile journey (on foot!) into this sacred site, revered by Hindus and Buddhists pilgrims.  Reading his reflections of his extraordinary pilgrimage, the tremendous physical exertion, his vulnerability and strength against the elements, and the sacred experience that was both his journey and destination - this was my first real connection with him, through our mutual love of travel and pilgrimage.

I began bringing this book to my class, sharing it during our section on Pilgrimage and Hindu ritual.  I read passages to my students, finding myself excited to share his journey to Kailash with them.  They would ask questions about him and I would become excited to tell them.  I began reading more and more about him, curious about his life and his yoga practice.   Then I went to India and made a pilgrimage to the Sivananda Ashram in Rishikesh, where Satchidananda studied in his youth. 

A few years later, there was a very dark time when my spouse was going through his own treacherous journey which would eventually (thank God) bring him to sobriety. One particularly hopeless night, I had a dream that I was sitting on a rock ledge over a waterfall.  Hundreds of huge boulders filtered the rushing stream.  As I sat on the ledge, I was overcome with feelings of sadness and helplessness.  In frustration, I began sobbing uncontrollably.  Then, I felt a leathered hand on mine and long fingers gently curled around my own.  I looked up and Satchidananda was sitting next to me, his orange robes flapping in the wind and mist. He smiled at me sweetly, so beatifically and genuinely, it made me giggle in the middle of my sobs.  He bobbled his head Indian style, “Let’s jump” and then looked down at the rocky water.  I looked at him, eyes wide, “What?  We can’t jump down there!”  He smiled again, “Trust me.”  He pointed at my heart, “Trust yourself.”   He squeezed my hand.  I closed my eyes and then felt the sensation of falling, his hand still wrapped around my own. I awoke before we landed.

I was surprised at how moved I was by his presence in my dream.  How real it felt.  How real the feelings of comfort and solace I felt, in a time when I needed it desperately.  Was it really him?  Or perhaps he symbolized the sat guru – the guru within us all – that we have the wisdom and strength ourselves to overcome any obstacles.  Either way, this dream was a game changer in my Yoga practice.  Towards the end of our training at the Ashram, Tori (the New Yorker) had said to me, “You know, I’ve struggled so much with this Guru stuff.  I can’t drink that damn tea.  But, I’ll tell you what…”  She paused and shook her head, “I’ll be damned if I can do yoga without facing his picture.  I just can’t bring myself to do my Sun Salutations with my back to him.” 

Over a decade later, I’ve come to find those words ringing true for me as well.  I cannot turn my back on him.  On my Yoga altar, he stands along with many other images, including Ganesh, Jesus, Buddha, Shiva Rea, Kwan Yin, my great-grandmother, etc.  This picture is not the ubiquitous Integral Yoga head shot that was hung in every room of the Ashram. Instead, I chose the black and white image of him on his Kailash pilgrimage.  In it, he stands at ease, holding a long walking stick that mirrors his lean, lanky, stretched body.  His beard is unruly and still dark in its youth, his turban is wrapped snugly around the crown of his head and his hip sunglasses shield him from the bright sun high in the Himalayas.  He stands with an ease and satisfaction, his face content, looking out over the beauty of the trail. 

It is my absolute favorite picture of him (not only because Gurus just look funny in sunglasses) but because it reminds me that like him, I am a pilgrim too.  I may not drink his tea or cry at the utterance of his name, but I lovingly respect him and what he has done for Yoga. For my Yoga.  I may not agree with all of his ideas, which are steeped in a particular culture, time and perception, but that doesn’t mean I cannot hold his teachings as sacred. 

Much like our own grandparents, our youth comes at the most inopportune time – it is often only years later that many of us appreciate what these story keepers have to offer, their libraries of history and family tradition.  Though Satchidananda is “gone,” he is more present to me now than he was 13 years ago at the Ashram when he was in body, just a few feet from me.

The Guru who rattles around in my head and heart now is not the Guru of the Ashram, not the Guru of leftover tea, not the Guru who may or may not have slept his own devotees (allegations he denied consistently), not the Guru of pomp and accolades.   Instead, my guru is the one who takes my hand when I need it, the one whose voice I hear when I chant, the one who explains the Yoga Sutras to me in a way that I understand and can relate to my own students, the one who spent a childhood eating chapatti in Southern India, running around on knotty knees and bony feet.  My guru is the rugged backpacker, the Woodstock guru, the “Om” leader, the adorable Suzuki sidekick driver and the one who opened the door to my Sadhana.

Satchidananda taught me that the guru is within.   And maybe, just maybe, this guru is as real and powerful as any “living” one.

Kwan Yin's Dance of Motherhood

Happy Buddha (Wesak) Day!  To celebrate, my friend and I went to our bi-weekly Kirtan, which this week was themed with our favorite Buddhist chants and a celebration of Kwan Yin.  I decided to take Bodhi with me, thinking that at 9 months old, she was ready to experience the bhakti devotion her Mama loves so much.  I was naive.  It wasn't that she cried. In fact, she loved it so much, she wanted to proclaim it to everyone with her high pitched vocal squeals and laughs.  For the first couple of times, it was cute and a few people laughed. After a few minutes though, I took her back to the nursery because I didn't want to disturb anyone's meditation.

The next 90 minutes went as such: chase Bodhi around the nursery, pull toy out of her mouth, carry her back into meditation room thinking she would be worn out and quiet, giant squeals of delight upon realization that she had an audience again, back to the nursery, chase around, repeat...  By 8:30, I was completely exhausted, sweaty and disappointed that I had missed most of the Buddha celebration (and worried that my bringing her may have disturbed other practitioners).

I started seeing her familiar signs of imminent bedtime, so I took advantage, sliding her down into my front snugli carrier, popping a born free bottle of pumped milk into her mouth and watching her eyes get heavy.  I sighed, deciding to risk it one more time.  I walked back into a lovely chorus of Pare Gate. As I came into the back of the room, something startled me out of the corner of my eye. Through the doorway of another side room, a mannequin in a bride's dress stood facing the light coming in the window.  The mannequin seemed so real, but was completely unmoving.  It was a little spooky and I stood there a minute, unable to take my eyes off of it as if there was something pulling me into that room.  Then it did start to move, gracefully swaying back and forth.

After my stomach leaping into my throat initially, I realized this mannequin was our Kwan Yin for our evening, a real practitioner. I then felt voyeuristic, realizing that I was watching her prepare for her role and I quickly continued making my way to the front of the room where Bodhi could see the lights and harmonium.  She watched with fascinated eyes as I swayed her back and forth with the melody and she drank her milk contently.   I sang softly into her ear, emphasizing the part of "Para sum gate, Bodhi Svaha" and she looked up at me with an expression that was half surprised and half amused as if we were all singing just for her.

Then Kwan Yin came down the aisle, dressed in her bridal white lace and holding a beautiful lotus candle. She walked slowly and gracefully and then danced her sacred dance.  As we chanted Kwan Yin Pusa, she stood still as a statue (boy, she was very good at this!) and we circumambulated around her.  By this time, Bodhi was asleep against my chest.  Warm and snuggled close, I sighed in relief and for the first time all night, began chanting with full energy, with my entire being and focus.

As I passed by Kwan Yin, I silently thanked her for this moment, these little precious gems of peace that new moms get after so much continuous exhaustion, anxiety and chaos.   I thought of India and that one beautiful woman in her glowing sari that had given me a helping hand when I had been in so much despair.  I thought of all the ways Kwan Yin, and the feminine divine as a whole, in Durga, Saraswati, Kali, Tara, White Buffalo Calf Woman, Mother Theresa, St. Catherine, and most of all, Mary, have accompanied me throughout my spiritual journey.

I looked down to my little sleeping girl with her tiny hand curled around my arm and tears filled my eyes.  Feeling connected to all of these divine mothers, I realized that the dance I was engaging in around Kwan Yin mirrored my dance with motherhood in general.  New, thrilling, overwhelming, and beautiful, it is the greatest dance of my life.

Serving the Goddess

I've been attending a Kirtan/Satsang the last few months and it is invigorating!  Ever since the Ashram, I have missed the energy and connection that comes from an authentic and lively chanting session.   It is absolutely one of my favorite aspects of Yoga and I am so happy to be able to experience it again.

The leaders (a couple) are phenomenal.  Musicians, poets, yogis - they know their stuff and have been doing this since the early 70s in San Francisco.  She has spent a lot of time in India and her experience and life of Yoga weaves through the entire session. 

The last time I attended, she said when her daughter was born, she loved the opportunity to "serve the Goddess" in that form.  This hit me like a golden light beam piercing my heart.  It all came into place.  While I've struggled to "fit in" asana practice, I have felt deeply and strongly that my yoga practice has never been so aware and so in the moment as with taking care of my baby. 

Rocking her to sleep, nursing her in the mornings and at night, I practice my pranayama with her against my chest.  Our daily rituals, which may seem mundane to some, have become a zen practice that I enjoy.  Washing her bottles and bowls, changing her diapers, washing and folding her clothes, tending to her every need, wish and want - it has all become a meditative practice, one I have surprised myself by thriving in.   While I often get distracted during traditional sitting meditation, my working meditation of serving her allows my mind to focus on the task at hand, always with the ultimate goal of her in mind. 

There will be plenty of time to teach her asana and fun animal poses and sounds in the future.  Right now, I am going to take what my Kirtan teacher said to heart and serve this tiny, beautiful goddess that has brought such grace and joy into my life.

A New Kind of Yoga

My entire yoga practice and perception of my yoga practice has changed tremendously since the birth of Bodhi.  After numerous failed attempts to practice yoga like I did pre-baby, I realized that I had to completely transform my yoga, physically, mentally, emotionally (and especially time wise). 

Aside from the obvious difference physically, where I now humbly feel like I've started over again in asana because of the intense recovery of the C-section, the difference in focus is astonishing as well.   I spent the first 3 months of her life trying to squeeze a session (in vain) into an already insane day in between her feedings, my pumping, laundry, work, etc., I had to remind myself for about the eight thousandth time in my life that (duh) sadhana (spiritual practice) is in every moment, not just on the mat. 

When I'm singing to her, nursing her, folding her tiny little laundry (oh, how I love that baby laundry detergent that smells like what the color pink should if it had a smell), I am attempting to cultivate my mindfulness, being in the moment.  When she is cranky or fighting sleep, I hold her against me, rocking and engaging in deep pranayama - I've found Ujayyi breathing (Darth Vader) to be her favorite (and the most effective in soothing her - must be most like the womb!).

When I am lucky enough to be able to roll out my mat, I combine it with her playtime, taking the opportunity to stretch into some wide leg forward bends and other floor asanas while I stretch her legs and roll her from side to side and do other "mommy and me" exercises.  I have these little funky finger puppets that I'll put on my index fingers and dance them around as I breathe my arms overhead. As I exhale them down, I tickle her arms and belly as she giggles and cackles.

I spend a lot of my yoga time now smiling.   I used to be so serious during my practice.  Now, any session with her involves giggling, laughing, singing, and the occasional poop interruption.  Not too far from the yoga I experienced in India...

Before her birth, I purchased a few "Mommy and Me" yoga and exercise videos.  Though I was religious about using prenatal yoga and exercise DVDs, I have to say this hasn't been the case postpartum.  The only one I've really managed to use is Shiva Rea's "Mama and Baby" yoga (which is adorable) but even that is mostly put aside while I put on a groovy CD and she and I do our own thing.

Very rarely, usually when she's decided to take a longer nap and I somehow will myself to put aside the laundry, dishes, grading, and all the things that never seem to end, I am able to have the unbelievable luxury of a 45 minute or hour yoga session to myself.

When this happens, I am so excited and overwhelmed with the possibilities of it all that I can barely contain myself.  I lose myself in the deliciousness of this quiet, unencumbered time and I absolutely lose and find myself simultaneously, going so deeply into that place where my body, mind and heart unite and it reminds me...reminds me of a strength that I do possess, both in mind and body, that is so easy to forget when you are weepy and exhausted and post partum and carrying around extra baby poundage and feel like the world is crashing in around you.

A couple of days ago, I was weepy and irritated and trying to figure out a new car seat with a squirming, cranky baby who was ready to MOVE this vehicle right now (she does not like an unmoving car!)  I was swearing and in tears.  I finally got it figured out and as I passed the dock on the lake, I stopped the car because the sunset was so alarmingly stunning, a deep orange and burgandy expanse against the black silhouette of the trees.  I could hear a large group of geese honking and making all sorts of chatter.  Many more flew in overhead and I could hear the soft "wffftt" of their wings flapping.  As they landed, the collective "sssshhh" of the water splashed against their wingtips and I breathed it all in, smiling.  I could feel God taking me by the hand, "Look, you dummy.  This is your practice. Peace is all around you.  Just take it in. This is your yoga now."

Life in Extremes

I spent the majority of my time in India in a baffled state of trying to reconcile the extremes.  A land of contradictions, there was a Grand Canyon sized gap between those who have and those in utter poverty, those who were giving and those who would steal and take you for everything you had, and the beauty and the raw ugliness. India was bizarre, filthy, appaling, maddening, unfamiliar, yet at serendipitous times, overwhelmingly beautiful, unchartered, exhilerating, full of surprises, and capable of moving my spirit to a level that is undefinable.  While the darkness could be so hopelessly abymsal, the spiritual beauty soared to a level so transcendent, I couldn't help but cry on a daily basis.  Against the constant chaos and despair, India gave me some of the most breathtaking, miraculous, God-filled moments of my life.

I have come to the conclusion that having a newborn is kind of like India.

In both, I have gotten little to no sleep, have rarely gotten a hot shower uninterrupted, suffered complete physical exhaustion and emotional breakdowns, and of course...there is so much poop everywhere!

The lows can be so low. The up all night sleep deprivation, moving through your blurred days as a stained, disheveled, frumpy, sore, spit-up covered zombie.  Those disheartening times when nursing isn't quite the beautifully perfect, effortless beatific experience La Leche makes it out to be.  Instead, there are times when she is screaming, arching, her mouth no longer belonging to a soft baby's, but instead has been taken over by an angry pirana in a purple sleeper who is fiercely pulling on your painful nipple and stretching it like it's taffy. Her tiny balled fists are curled in fury, her face beet red and her cries like a machine gun.  She's crying.  You're crying.  The dog is hiding.  Night comes and you wonder with anxiety how you are going to do this all night again with no sleep.  It starts to feel like Groundhog Day. It all seems hopeless...

But then, the morning light comes.  She wakes up and smiles at you, beaming at you in recognition.  She laughs when you make raspberries on her little tummy and she reaches out to your face, exploring your jaw and nose as if it's the most amazing thing ever.  She looks deep into your eyes in recogition, just straight into your soul, as if she's the only one in the world who really knows you.  These moments, when she is warm and squishy and soft and loving, there is nothing better.  Except when she is warm and squishy and soft and loving in your arms while completely asleep, peaceful with her soft whispery breaths.

And then there are the magic nursing moments when everything gels and she latches on seamlessly and effortlessly.  She reaches up with her free hand, touches your jaw and then smiles at you.  Then, she closes her eyes and sighs contently and it is as if God's divine light is pouring right through you in all of its transcendent glory.

Or it could be the oxytocin release...

Either way, as my friend Emily says, "It's a good thing, at 3 a.m., that they're so damn cute."  Word.

And she is cute.  And I am so blessed.  And again, God never said it would be easy, only worth it.  And she is worth it.  My God, is she... I have never known such love.  There needs to be a bigger word for this kind of love!