Here we go again. I signed up for another 200-hour teacher training that starts in a little under a month. It’s completely different from my first one.
In asana, we are constantly exploring the balance of stira and sukha. Sukha means with ease, comfort and happiness. Stira means with a fixed, attentive mind. Sukha = sweet / Stira = strength. I’ve noticed that the stira has been taking over lately – which is funny because for so much of my life a “fixed, attentive mind” was not exactly how a friend would describe me. (like one time, in college, I was walking out of the art museum with a friend and got so wrapped up in our conversation about the exhibit, I almost walked right into traffic. He pulled me back to the sidewalk. I like to think I’ve come a very long way.)
So I’m doing a training to get down with my sweet self in a grounded way. Dive a little deeper into meditation, breath work, and a different level of asana exploration. (Also, we are required to have a neti pot and a tongue scraper, so I know I’m in for some new experiences.)
So here we go again, further on up the road, following the spark through the foggy field.
Recently, I received the sad news that my last horn teacher died suddenly from a stroke. She was only my teacher for a little over a year, but there is still a list of important lessons that I learned from her.
She had an infectious love for horn music. What made her a great teacher was her ability to create space (in a very no-nonsense way) to help other people cultivate their own passion. She wasn’t playing in an orchestra. She wasn’t making recordings. She was a teacher and, believe me, she could play the @#$% out of the Brahms Trio.
One of my favorite memories was when the university paper interviewed her about being a female brass player*. Apparently, she told the student (who was likely expecting a feminist manifesto), “Look, sometimes you just need to learn to drink with the boys.” She taught me how to choose my battles. She spoke up for me when I needed it. She supported my decision to put my instrument down, even though she didn’t fully agree with it. She held the space for me.
When I heard the news, I felt simultaneous sadness of her loss and gratitude that I was able to study with her. I clearly saw the tremendous gifts, opportunities and responsibilities of being a teacher. I hope to hold the space for my students the way she held the space for so many young musicians. I realize that even brief moments of connection with a teacher can resonate throughout a lifetime.
I feel gratitude, inspiration and can’t wait to teach my next class!
– *For those of you outside of the industry, being a female brass player it’s not for the thin-skinned. Case in point: the widespread use and acceptance of the word brasshole.
Over the course of my career (outside of the yoga-ing), I’ve gone through a lot of safety training. CPR, first aid, etc. I train people how to evacuate burning buildings and respond to medical emergencies during performances. If you’ve done any of this training, you know the drill: check the scene, call for help, and then provide care – in that order. Check. Call. Care.
Why check first? Though the person needing assistance may be in a safe location, there could be dangling live wires or falling debris between the two of you. You don’t go through those wires or risk the falling debris, you call for help because you could die or be badly injured. You cannot help someone if you are dead or injured.
I was thinking about this during my commute this morning, reflecting on how I totally flubbed part of my class last night. Don’t worry, nobody died or lost a limb. I had it sketched out, practiced, and rehearsed. Then in the moment, I mixed up some inhales/exhales, called some wrong hands to be lifted. I ended up laughing at myself and vowing to teach it some more and moved on to the next part of class. The person who always gives me great feedback laughed with me after class and said, “I really liked that flow. Just rehearse the body cues some more.”
Several months ago, I would have been in tears in the middle of class instead of laughing. I realized after class that I was able to laugh and move on because I was teaching in a safe space.
As teachers, we focus a lot on creating a safe place for students to practice being themselves. We must establish trust. We must teach what we know, guide with safe body cues and sequences, use non-judgmental language (verbal and non-verbal), and give our students permission to feel whatever is coming up and own their practice.
Teachers must find that same safe place to give ourselves the freedom to teach. In that earlier situation, I would have spent the rest of class dreading the 45-minute to hour-long feedback from a person offering to mentor me that usually went like this: “Your students will not trust you. You obviously don’t know what you are teaching or why. I mean, what was that?” I would show up to each class with my stomach in knots, catching eye rolls (or worse, scowls) throughout the class from someone offering to help me.* I lost sight during that time of what I learn on the mat and why I teach: It is okay to not be perfect. Let go of whatever is not serving you. Go to the mat to find a place of non-judgment.
Teachers are people, too.
In order to truly teach and be in the room for the students, we must be teaching in a safe place. I am so grateful for the two studios that gave me a safe place to teach and heal from that experience. I remember my first audition after that first heavy gig was over – I looked around the room and felt an incredible freedom. I had fun, taught from my heart, and have been doing it over and over again ever since.
Each class is a blank slate. You teach an awesome class, you move on. You teach a not-so-awesome class, you move on. Just like in practice, you move on to the next pose, sometimes fall on your face, get up, laugh it off, lighten up, learn.
I can’t wait to get up and teach again.
*Maybe someday I’ll share more, maybe some day I won’t. I don’t share this to spread political ill-will, take sides, or talk sh*t. I share this because it happened. The overall experience really messed with my head (I hope unintentionally) and hit home an important lesson: teachers are people and we can learn equally from their flaws. We can learn from completely losing trust in someone and be grateful for that lesson.
I saw a hilarious video today that is sure to go viral. I want to do my part to help it out.
Why do I love this video?
Creepy New Agey Dudes. You know who they are. They call women they don’t know “goddesses” and wear “free hugs” signs. Men who look at women way too long and way too softly, as part of their daily practice as walking The Way of the Douchisattva.
I want to think of this as well-intentioned, but it’s just plain creepy. I couldn’t watch the whole thing:
The video reminds me of a lead-up to something. It’s like when I’m sitting on the couch with M and say, “You are such an amazing man, so handsome. Would you get me a glass of water? You will? You’re so great!” or he says, “You are so wonderful and beautiful. Would you mind going outside and turning off the drip irrigation? You will? You’re so great!”
It’s like someone could say, “-Play Video- So what I’m saying is, I’ll clean the garage if you clean the house. Together, we can do the yardwork.”
I am really, really glad several very funny men had the balls to make this video:
Dear Man, please spread this video – the one with Will Ferrell & Will Forte. Together, we can keep not taking ourselves so seriously. (Seriously, lighten the #$@% up!)
I generally open up my basics classes with an explanation that the basics class will be simple – simple meaning it is entirely up to each student whether it will be hard or easy. It’s the simple things that tend to eff us up if we let them because we think “Oh, it’s so simple, I can do this without much thought. No sweat.”
Case in point: sitting.
My teacher training concluded with a retreat at Lake Tahoe. I drove a car full of people up the hill to the retreat center. It was winter, we had a lot of gear, and my Honda Element was absolutely packed. After we unloaded and went to our bunks, I realized my meditation cushion was nowhere to be found. I kind of freaked out inside and hopefully maintained an appearance of being cool about the whole prospect of sitting for hours on a yoga block. I picked up every purple Hugger Mugger in the center looking for the pink embroidery I had lovingly stitched along the handle. Finally, I realized I must have left it behind and resigned myself to the fact there was nothing I could do about it.
Non-attachment, right?
I sat for hours on a mash-up of yoga blocks and blankets over the weekend as I tried to find something that would give me the support I have from my beloved cushion. I finally found it, but it was after hours of bad sitting that wrecked my body for the following week.
If you are interested in meditation or consider yourself a pro at sitting for days, check out this video from Amy Ippoliti. This is a really fantastic breakdown of how to sit.
A week ago, I found out that one of my best friends from Middle & High School died. How it happened, I wish I could say. I heard via Facebook too late to call back east and spent three hours of the next morning sifting through rumors, calling the cops, her phone, and even the newspaper until I got a hard confirmation from a family friend. I still don’t know how she died. All I know is that she is gone, leaving behind twin 3-year-olds and a lot of people who love her.
I’ve been reading (and very much enjoying), Stephen Batchelor’s book Confession of a Buddhist Athiest. In his travels, he came across a teaching that doubt should be explored and celebrated because it mirrors the potential depth of understanding/awakening.
As I cried my eyes out and spent the week finding space to try to wrap my mind around what happened, I thought about that teaching. I started to realize that the depth of sorrow I was feeling over the loss of my friend mirrored the depth of love I have for her, the depth of gratitude that she was such an important part of my life. Grieving is the healing process of finding balance between the two.
Like so many simple teachings, it is such a hard lesson not only to learn but to live.
Once upon a time, priests conducted services in Latin to multitudes of people who did not understand the language. Bibles were printed for select few while the majority of people did not know how to read. Yet the multitudes still went, faithfully, to hear these men speak to them in a language they would never understand and see these men read from these great texts they could never hope to learn how to decipher. Sure, it was convention, but there was also an element of trust.
Some truly beautiful works and devotional pieces came from this tradition. In fact, composers like Palestrina, Dufay and others would use popular (often political) songs like L’homme Arme as the melody for Masses for the masses who may not understand the words but surely knew the melody:
I’ve been thinking about this recently because chanting has been popping up in my teaching and in conversations I have with other teachers. I’ve been chanting a little in some of my classes when I can provide context, translation, and tie it in to the class. I also end each of my classes at one of the studios where I teach with the studio’s mantra. I always share its translation: let love be the yoga of all.
I take time to do this because most of my experiences with chanting have happened with a teacher leading a call and response with absolutely no explanation of what we’re doing or why we’re doing it. I always feel a little left out when this happens and go straight home to type things like “Govinda Jai” into google to find out what the heck I just did at yoga class. On the other hand, when a teacher has taken time to provide context for the chant, it has always been a powerful experience.
And, sigh, there is some ugly: I’ve heard some teachers make small yet slighting remarks about other teachers/studios not chanting enough or at all.
It’s my opinion that chanting for the sake of chanting doesn’t make any one class more spiritual or authentic than another one. People have been singing together as long as we have been people in every language, which is why singing hymns
or kirtan
or rocking the #@%& out at live shows
are all so powerful and beautiful.
I love music and I love to sing – especially with other people. I also like to know what I’m singing and why. Language is communication, no matter what the tongue. Just because Sanskrit is old doesn’t mean it is inherently or exclusively magic. Case in point – the clips above are pretty magical. But so is this:
And this!
We are *so lucky* to have so many resources (books, internet, podcasts, albums) to help us dig deeper into this stuff and provide context to students about what we are doing as a community. I’m really enjoying adding this element to my teaching. I have a blast rocking a little Shiva Shambo at the beginning of a class. I feel much more connection to my students when I know that they know why I’m asking them to close their eyes and sing their hearts wide open.
