little locker room unraveling

Every so often, from the shadows of the ladies’ changing room one might hear the somewhat laboured breath of someone unraveling; so much happens in the main room of the shala. There are countless triggers for such moments: a difficult drop back, a deep catch, a great practice, a challenging one, possibly anything in there could trigger a breakdown of sorts. Each soft sniffle has its own story, some are laced with joy, or catharsis. Others are much heavier. It is the norm to respectfully leave the person to it, it’s an incredibly private moment happening in kind of public space. Taking finishing postures in the locker rooms can wrap things up beautifully, it is the deneumont of that day’s practice, most of the time it’s like clockwork, but if things need to be resolved, this is often a good moment to quietly take stock. If that happens with tears than so be it. One early morning, last week, the thinly veiled muffled sounds of emotional release were coming from me.

It was my first real cry inside the shala this season. It’s not such a biggie as I’m kind of a cry baby anyway. I must admit that I was born an emotional being. I’ve already had some teary-eyed moments after conference or at the end of led intermediate or at home, but the ones that come at the heels of a deep self-practice—especially here—have a certain potency.

In truth: nothing “big” happened, I wasn’t hurt, nor taken to new depths. I hadn’t been given a new pose—which could be, in part, what brings me to this moment. I had a pretty unextraordinary practice, by certain standards, there were no new physical breakthroughs, but something more subtle had shifted.

Last month was about landing the practice, settling in, harmonising with the Mysore rhythm, the pace set by Sharathji and those around me. At home, I self-practice on my own. When I’m lucky I can practice with a friend. When I get a chance to practice with a senior teacher, I take it. But, actually, opportunities are rare and my biggest chunks of guided study is here with my teacher. Solo self-practice, which I also love nowadays, is challenging in its solitariness. Having fortitude, devotion, self discipline is of massive import. For me, it is also incredibly comfortable, when it’s just me, when there is no one to rile me or motivate me to to go beyond my comfort zone. I realise that I often coast, feeling self-satisfied enough that I got on the mat and finished my practice amidst the bustle of teaching and navigating life in Cairo.

Thus, coming here is so important for me, it energetically pulls me back into a more directed practice. Maybe it’s not all Mysore magic as it is the Mysore magnet. I am pulled back here, the energy of the place draws me in and brings me back into the source flow of energy. It magnetically pulls me out of my comfortable places, but that also means meeting the hard edges of my own practice. Here, we go straight up to our limits—and not just physically.

Being near my teacher triggers my need for approval and my desire for more. Our wants and expectations are amplified. Likewise, it is tough to enter a room with so many accomplished āsana practitioners, it’s hard to keep the drishti from wandering, and to fall into the traps of comparison, which can give birth to a variety of lesser feelings. The ideal is that we mind our own practice, but even this is a process. I’ve heard commentary on how competitive it can feel in the shala, for example. These feeling of competitiveness belong to the practitioner, the practice merely reveals it, and can be a tool when used properly to override it. In my perspective, when such feelings arise it’s also evidence that the practice is working, the question is: what do we then do about it?

Practicing here is so effective, it pulls these feelings straight out, so much so that sometimes the air is thick with it. The choice becomes ours, do we get consumed by it or do we transmute it into something light and positive? Do we let the practice aggravate or soften it? For me, this is one of the powerful examples of the purification that can happen while practicing here; we meet our ego, our dark bits, we acknowledge them and we send them on their way. And when they return, as they often do, we go through the process all over again.

What I realised was that I was chasing something, running after my teacher’s approval, running after my fellow practitioners who all seemed to be literally faster than me, running towards some elusive end goal. In my chase to finish, I was loosing sight of something. What reduced me to tears that morning was that I’d shown up for myself in many good ways, that I was present in as many poses as I could muster. I took my time, repeating any posture I knew I could do better, I focused on my own breathing and my own pace. I’d done my best, not for my teacher but for myself, and it was good enough. Perhaps this is the way to honour our teacher: to do the very best we can not for his sake but for our own. I felt a wave of self-acceptance and relief, remembering I don’t have to be like anybody else, there was nowhere to be, there was no one to catch up to.

It was a small victorious moment—relatively sweet in the range of releases that can be felt in there. I had no idea when I started this physical practice that my biggest achievements would be making space in my mind and heart. The interesting thing is that I did move forward after this moment. It’s not the first time where a break in my perception is followed by a pass by my teacher. It could be random but somehow I don’t think so. The following day I was given something new to do. Irregardless, a whole new adventure/challenge/lesson is waiting around the bend, definitely not just for the body but for the mind and heart also.

adventures in assisting continued

I wasn’t keeping track of the time in there anymore, but based on the thinning number of students and the widening gaps of flooring, I knew we were nearing the end of morning classes. My fellow 6:30am shift co-assistants had already left the room and I resigned myself to being there to the end. I stopped looking at the clock above the door after the conference where Sharathji joked about assistants who were more interested in being dismissed than facilitating drop backs. I was horrified, although I have my moments of being exhausted and wanting to go home to rest, I genuinely love being in the room, assisting my teacher.

“Kaz, go home,” I hear in a different, lighter tone from all the other previous dismissals. I look towards him to see one of his epic wide grins, even his eyes are smiling, he’s laughing as he shares with the room, “I forgot.“

Was this different from the other times he had kept me back? At least twice I’ve been in the room till the very end, and over the month my shift seemed to end closer to two and a half to three hours. Was it intentional? Or just more forgetting? Did he think I wanted to get out of there? Or was there a greater purpose for these extraordinarily long shifts? Maybe he wanted me to get stronger, maybe he wanted to break something in me, or maybe nothing.

I feel like all the trips are filled with little moments such as these with Sharathji, slightly discombobulatingly awkward exchanges that are also filled with some strange sweetness. Lessons in disguise that are either incredibly crafted or ridiculously random. However they come about, what’s important is that I’m actually learn something.

For four seasons, I’ve assisted my teacher here in the shala. Except for the first time in 2013—another funny moment when I was asked by him upon registering to assist even though I was not yet authorised—I have requested every other time. Some friends and fellow practitioners have called this crazy or called me a masochist, and there may be some truth in this. But some of my most memorable moments on those trips were less on my mat and more being in the room, learning from my fellow students, and most of all, from my teacher.

My month of assisting is up. In the past, I would have been happy for it to last forever, but right now I look forward to having the opportunity to focus solely on my own practice, to have that extra bit of time to rest, to have breakfast with friends, and to have some leftover energy to enjoy being in India. I also know that it will be bittersweet; I will miss those hours spent in the hot and heady mist of practice, being in the bustle of a room in motion, having my teacher personally direct my energy, learning to speak with my co-assistants with eyes and gestures only, and having the privilege to witness the transformational work that unfolds here every morning. It is amazing to see the room evolve, to see a person change.  

Over the last month, I have stood beside so many folks as they faced their fears, as they found their courage. Some developed more strength, while others cultivated more softness. For some, the struggle is an ongoing process but no matter where one might be in the spectrum, there was this overwhelming feeling of acceptance, grace and gratitude.

I, too, have grown so much in this room, both in my own practice and in the practice of assisting, I remember feeling so uncertain and insecure that first time, I was so unseasoned then, and because I was awkward so were some of my assists, I must admit. It’s important to remember that the shala is a teaching space, teaching and learning is happening here in so many levels. Sharathji isn’t just teaching, he’s learning about us, about our bodies, about our emotions, each person brings a new angle to the practice. We are  learning from him, of course, from the practice, from India, from each other and from ourselves. And we assistants are doing a huge chunk of learning also.    

This shala is a different kind of classroom, there’s a lot of independent work-study, there are no real goals other than to do the work and yet assessments are ongoing, pretty much all the time, it’s a little trial-by-fire pretty much moment to moment. Sharathji is sharp, quick to point out gaps in our attention, issues with our performance, this is how we learn, this is how he keeps students safe also. Sometimes it’s stressful or heartbreaking when you’re called out or you have an awkward moment with another student. Assisting here is like practicing here, buttons will be pushed, barriers will be broken, surrender is still on the agenda.

It is amazing to watch my teacher in action, how he tirelessly gives, how even-minded he remains for pretty much six and a half teaching hours—and usually this is even longer—how present he is throughout the morning, he sees so much, he looks out for those who are struggling, he knows just when it’s time to facilitate depth, he’s able to recognise that precious moment when potential and ability can actually meet and then really holds space for it. It’s really inspiring to be in the room with him. I know some students might think assistants are like barriers between them and their teacher, I think we have to give our teacher more credit than that, he has shooed me off so many people and directed me to others. I believe he chooses when it’s the right time for us and we should trust in that.

Overall, however, I have to say the student culture here this last month has been incredible. It’s been such a good experience; the feeling of acceptance and surrender towards assistants was unparalleled in my small experience. When I first started coming to Mysore, assistants were a new concept and there was a fair bit of resistance. We seem to be finally getting used to this feature. And with less resistance there is more ease in the help given and received—and, thus, in the room at large.

Honestly, there is so much to say about the experience of assisting that it’s been hard to write about it. I’ve been working on this article for a couple of weeks now and it’s been difficult. I think, ultimately, words cannot capture what happens within these shala walls; practicing here, as with assisting here, is to be felt deeply, rather than talked or written about. The lessons take time to gestate and outcomes are often revealed slowly long after leaving this place.

I guess the masochist in me just wants to bring more of this into my mysore space in Egypt—or, maybe, I’d love for all this teaching to just live inside me, to move through my body, through my practice, through my hands and actions. Being in the room is cozying up to all this juicy parampara and assisting here is like learning through osmosis, the room is dripping with the system, it is full of the presence and attention of our teacher, it is a laboratory of opening bodies, breaking shells, pushing boundaries. I always knew the method worked for me, but being in there makes it so clear how it can also work for everybody.