Sharath and the name game

I was laughing when I showed my friend Sharz my autographed copy of Sharath's new book, Astanga Yoga Anusthana, which he signed after the last Sunday conference (March 24). 

"Are you going to ask him to change it?" Sharz asked.

"Nah," I was doing my own version of the Indian head bob, "Really, it's perfect."

The inscription read: To Kiz, With Blessings. Sharath Jois. 

Erm, what's one vowel, right?! Eh, good enough! 

It was funny since I was so careful with my friend's copy which I asked him to sign first but then was complacent with my own. I guess I thought that since he started calling me by name at the start of the season, and especially after assisting in February, he'd already learned my name.

And he did, just not quite so perfectly.

It's not really a big deal. Sometimes, Sharath gets names fast. Sometimes, it takes time--in many cases, a lot of time. With Sharath, one's name, especially if it's an unusual one, can evolve creatively over time. Accents and vowels change, additions might be made, letters may go missing. You can see he's really trying. But as sharp as Sharath might be with students' asana practices, with so many people coming through the shala, he would rightly have trouble remembering people's names. 

In truth, I think it's a miracle he knows my name at all. My first year, I thought he'd never get it as he would write out the four names listed on my passport, none of which was the name I actually went by. But each time, I was in the office to register, I was too freaked out by him to point out he could skip the first three names altogether and replace them with the monosyllabic nickname that I was often called by. By my second trip, he stopped writing my last name and just scribbled down my three given names (they took the entire line already). This year, I suggested he just write "Kaz."

With the student-teacher ratio here totally out of whack, every little interaction is worth it's weight in gold. My first trip, I knew Sharath was my teacher. But did he know that? Was he conscious of the role I had assigned him in my life? It's taken some time, but I feel that by knowing my name, he recognizes me as his student now too.

So, it's ok if he doesn't have my name perfectly. Maybe this is also a part of the subtle schooling here in the shala, where the practice helps you grow but also keeps you humble. Besides, there are plenty of seasons to come. There's time for him to keep on getting my name wrong. There's time for me to keep on learning--among many many things, that there's more to being Sharath's student than a silly name game. 

the classroom shala, adventures in assisting

(Just got back to this article now. It's been four months since I started to write this and six months since actually assisting at the shala. I guess at this point, it's just better late then never...)


If you've spent any time studying at the KPJAYI shala in Mysore, you know what it's like: the crowded room supported by Sharath's unobtrusively sparse teaching style, which amounts to very minimal adjustments, and very little verbal instruction. If you really strip it down, it seems nearly obscene, the craze to practice in a hot, sweaty, too-full room, with little guidance--yet we pay dearly for this experience. Why do we do this?

The shala is a subtle classroom, maintaining a strange balance between the independent study that happens within the boundaries of one's mat space and the room at large, a heaving beautiful mess of collective energy tuned into breath. The teacher, Sharath, holds the space intuitively. In that room, his presence is pervasive. He practically has eyes on the back of his head. He sees so much, yet keeps his distance.

When I was assisting (last February and March), people would ask: How was Sharath teaching me to assist? or even Was Sharath teaching me how to assist? People want to know what he's like in that context. Truth: Sharath is the same at all times. There's no magic shift. No sudden deluge of instruction and technique. Maybe a few more jokes here and there, because he doesn't seem to want to take it all too seriously--we practitioners do enough of that! He once called me in the office to admire his up-close-and-personal photo of a tiger (and quite an impressive photograph it was), but there's no palling around at the end of class. 

I remember my first day at the shala, getting called in with "one more..." There's no time to dilly dally, once you're called into that room, regardless of whether it's your first time or not, you're basically being thrown into the deep end, sinking or swimming is up to you.

Assisting is like that too. There's no orientation. You come and you do. You bring in what you know, and within the shala workspace, you practice, you refine, you learn. Just like daily practice.

The moment you need guidance, however, Sharath is there. For me, day one of assisting, it was doing  supta kurmasana assists. He must have observed my "technique"--a mix-match of different influences from various teachers I've studied and worked with. Then he appeared, stepping in to demonstrate how he does it, which is so smooth and gentle, there was no cranking and little force, instead lots of integrity and strength. His style of teaching is more show then tell, which then gets to be ingrained into muscle memory as the assistance is repeated morning after morning.

He was particular with maricasana D assists and stopped me a couple of times from helping tight or once-injured yet earnest newcomers, saying that they need a little bit of time before being helped into a bind. And despite the tales of harsh adjustments, he's very conscious of when gentleness needs to be applied. Also reminding me that I needed to keep my own earnestness to assist in check.

Sharath would, of course, answer questions when asked, demonstrate when needed. But there's no coddling in his school. He gives you the time and space to figure things out independently. That's how we learn in ashtanga, through our own body of experience. That somehow part of the lesson of assisting is how we must take responsibility for our own personal survival as we hold a mysore space. How, through daily contact with practitioners, we learn to read people and to feel energy, understand when someone needs help, intuit when someone needs space as they go through their own process, walk away without taking anything personally, be gentle when it's appropriate and be boss when someone just needs get on with it.

Then, there was just being in the shala, taking part in the magic, watching Sharath so totally in his element. It was learning by osmosis. It was transference of energy. For me, this is what it means to be a part of the lineage, that there is a line, so subtle yet nearly tangible that connects the student to teacher, that teacher to the teacher before him and so on. For me, it's not really important how far back this line goes, what matters is that this line is real and that it connects people to the power of practice, to themselves and to each other.

getting off the gokulam merry-go-round

Just over a week since the shala closed and the mass exodus of yoga students seems to be at its end. Even Sharath, Saraswathi and the rest of the family are in the US, starting their tour in Greenwich, Conneticut just this last Monday.

Though I left Gokulam myself towards the end of last week to situate myself comfortably in the neighborhood of Saraswathipuram before heading back home to the Philippines, I drove around there yesterday morning to run a few errands. 

On the main street it seemed pretty much business as usual, except for the lack of foreign yoga students milling about, riding around in scooters or motorbikes. Guru's coconut stand was closed this morning. As was their food stand. The breakfast cafes are now closed for the season. Trupthi's Coffee stopped stocking fresh tofu, Mrs. Truphti explaining that there were no more yoga students. I said I was still there. She just laughed. One straggler doesn't make for much of a customer, I guess. 

There's a quiet about Gokulam now and it feels like the energy of the neighborhood has shifted some. There's also a certain sweetness to this time. As if some sort of natural balance is being restored in the residential neighborhood of Mysore, India. Gokulam takes back its streets from the foreign yoga students. Gone are the chatty little road blocks that stop in the middle of the street to converse for some five to fifteen minutes. 

Not that the yoga students won't be missed, as room and house rentals, silver sales, and other services slump for the hottest part of the year. Still, other schools remain open and Saraswathi will be back in action by July. But the main glut of eager ashtanga practitioners will come when Sharath commences teaching, rumored to be in late October. 

For me, one of the yoga throng, I feel like I too am regaining some of my own precious footing. Ending this shala season is a little like getting off a merry-go-round. My three month merry-go-round was actually three months of practice, five weeks of assisting, five weeks of courses at Mumuksha, a month and a half of philosophy classes at James', two weeks of singing lessons with Ranjini, not to mention the many precious moments with friends at the coconut stand, at Van Dosa, Secret Breakfast or Sri Durga Bhavan, or at home for intimate breaky or lunch. All of which I wholly treasure, despite the craziness.

It's only now that I fully realize how much I was whirling and moving, from one thing to another, continuously for three months. It's impossible to see straight in the throes of it. How does it feel stepping off a 3 month ride in which you are constantly going and going in circles? A little disorienting. I've touched ground, but things are still moving. What I realize that in order to do all that I wanted I sacrificed being really present, especially in my writing and in my personal relationships.

Moving so much and getting caught up in activity, I realize, is one of my problems, not just in Mysore, but in general. But Mysore does bring it up (and that is a part of it's magic), what with all the great opportunities to learn and expand. It's hard to set healthy personal boundaries. But they are incredibly necessary--for my own sanity and for efficacy of the yoga practice which I so cherish. Sharath always reminds us in conference, to go home, take rest, self-study--but how we manage this in a skillful way is up to us entirely.

(In a way, I'm pretty relieved that this year has been more like a merry-go-round than a roller-coaster--because I've had that too. The dismount from that is not so smooth as now.)

Ultimately, I do not regret any of the amazing learning experiences and all the awesome interactions I've had this season, but I also recognize that I could engage in a healthier way. I have to be more honest with my personal limitations. I have to give myself as much time to sit and be still, that there has to be a healthy balance between rest and activity, so that I can get the most of this crazy ride called Mysore, in this incredible amusement park called Life.

bye from the boss--oh, and practice!

Sharath signing copies of his book after conference.

For me, saying goodbye to Sharath at the end of the trip is always, well, weird. The farewell usually starts with a whole lot of emotional build up, as I come to the the lobby with my entire three months yoga process practically bursting from my chest, which somehow devolves into fear of actually breaking down when all I want to say is "thank you very much, see you next year!" Then there's the anticlimactic, awkward almost-smile and general lack of response that comes from a tired Sharath across his desk, which always leaves me feeling like I'm inconveniencing him by being all eager and at the edge of an emotional break down--which is what I usually feel before leaving Mysore (happily, not my emotional state this year!)

This year, Sharath set a nice tone as he himself said his goodbyes, closing the season at the end of the final Sunday Conference on March 24. He was not remotely sentimental, as one would expect. But probably the closest I've ever seen him to it, dispensing loving advice as Guruji was wont to do, "Practice, practice..." but in his own special way.

Sharath ends conference, "Thank you very much. This is the end of the season. Hope to see you again. I don't know when. When time comes, we'll all see... And...keep practicing. You know, as I told you, life is like Lombard Street, not only Lombart Street. It's got different terrains--in life. Sometimes you go off road. Sometimes you're on a nice track...The terrain keeps changing, it's not smooth all the time. So, don't get disturbed by these things. You keep your practice. Keep your steadiness in whatever terrain comes into your life. Keep on practicing yoga. Never leave practicing yoga. That is how we balance ourselves in whatever  difficult times or happy times. So I want you to enjoy that, keep that steadiness until I see you again. May God bless you all with lots of happiness--and sorrow, sometimes..." Sharath trails off in light but tender laughter.

"To know happiness you should go through sorrow." Never one to sugar-coat, Sharath shares, "In India, in New Year's, what we do is Bewu Bella. Bewu is the neem leaf. Bella is the sweet, jaggery. So, on that day we mix both and we eat it. Why? Because in the whole year, the whole year won't be smooth, there will be rough times also in life, in that year. In both the times, you should accept it with happiness. With happiness you should accept both the terrains, both the happiness as well as sorrow. For the that your mind should be steady and still..."

"If you believe in yoga, if you practice yoga, it will never let you go."

Thank you, Sharathji. Till next time!

the end of season

Last intermediate led today. Last conference at 9:30am. Last classes for the season tomorrow morning, two led primaries, 4:30 and 6am. Afterwards, finished! The shala will be officially closed until Saraswathi reopens for June. The buzz is that Sharath will teach again in late October. Six months from now.

Last season, I was here for the start, mid October 2011. The energy is starkly different from now. Then, there was this exuberance, excitement coming from all directions, students from different parts of the world, rev-ing up their practice engines at the same time--so different from the energy throughout the season as people flow into the shala infusing new energy in bursts.

Everyone was fresh, fresh from their home practices, countries, or travels. Sharath, too, started rested. He was in a good mood, joking around with students--downright jovial for Sharath's standards. The overall mood was light, fun, celebratory as old friends/new friends come together for practice. There was this feeling of potentiality in the air as the season starts and unfolds slowly.

Now, I am feeling the contrast between start of season and end of season. These last few days, weeks, have been incredibly intense. Every conversation reveals how everyone is so very tired.

For one, it's hot at the end of March. Dry, heat, day and night. Everyone feels it, most people retreat indoors through the hottest part of the day, which is most of the day.

Most everyone has been here a long enough time. Whether it's three months, two months, one month, there's a cumulative exhaustion. I'm pooped myself and there seems to be no end of it.

Our space holder, Sharath, started teaching in July. That's more than eight months he's been at it. Teaching, adjusting, back bending. He's been managing the flow of the shala. And he's been dealing with all forms of our "crazy" -- our questions and issues that eek out during practice and office hours. His eye-bags have been continuously growing, to no one's surprise as he admitted during conference to having four and a half hours of sleep at the moment. He's visibly tired.

As for the shala as a whole, I can't help but feel that we're all feeding into the same process. We're all ending the season together, all getting ready to move on, shift gears, places, intentions. All coming to some kind of closure, all our varied stories coming into climax then resolution all at once. And that intense collective energy is so powerful, yet so tiring. Like the mounting heat, there's been a fevered pitch to practice. And now, we are getting ready for the denouement...wherever that might take us.

I had my aversions arriving in January. And there's definitely some good reasons for coming earlier in the season. But there's something also special about being here for the close of the shala. This intensity that comes with the end, pushes boundaries. And if your an ashtanga vinyasa practitioner, that transformational push is like fairy dust. There's a pensiveness about, an emotional quality, people are being moved--quite literally too.

There is something tangible about the potency of practicing at the end of season. I felt it so beautifully last Friday's led primary, 4:30 am class. It started with "Om" and you could feel the room vibrating with energy, love, devotion. It was somehow amplified, like invisible waves radiating from god knows where. It was powerful. And at the end, during the closing chant, I felt the collective energy, so clearly attuned. What a special time to be here, I thought, feeling my own emotion swelling within. To end the season together, to see the deep, personal work of many months come to an end. It's inspiring in a different way altogether.

There's also this reverence to the lineage, to the tradition started by Pattabhi Jois. Everyday, there are flowers at the shala altar. There's a certain feel you get from people, this love for practice, this connection to the shala and Sharath. And there's a lot of gratitude going around, towards Sharath, Saraswathi, the assistants and towards each other, our fellow travelers, on this the end of one chapter of our yoga journey.

lessons from leg behind the head

Eka pada sirsasana. In English: "one foot behind the head" or "leg behind head." This moniker has just about the same effect on me as the classification "monkey eating eagle," which is another name for the Philippine national bird. Like there's something I can't quite grasp about it. Like the neurons in my brain just can't quite connect to the information. And with eka pada, it's not just the neurons...

I'm not prone to delusions of grandeur, but I did have one particular day dream about this trip: that Mysore would have worked it's magic on my reluctant hips and that they would open enough to make eka pada sirsasana, the first of the leg behind the head postures in 2nd, possible. That Sharath's mere presence in the room would make them blossom open like a lotus flower on a hot spring day. That the right leg--which until right before the trip would precariously lean on my neck always on the brink of sliding off my sloping head, back, shoulder--would magically just ease itself down behind the head, so far down that the ankle would be leaning snugly against the left shoulder. Ha! One can dream!

There was a part (admittedly, a big part) that believed it would happen. I felt it was important to be optimistic. That part was vigilant, believing every practice day during the first month would be the day that Sharath would finally give me the thumbs up and move me on to dwi pada, an even more intimidating posture, double the trouble of eka pada, not because I thought I deserved it, but rather because I wanted to hurry though these terrible leg behind the head postures.

There was one moment during led intermediate when I thought I'd done a decent enough job. Sharath was there right in front of me. I look up at him, asking for approval. He half grimaces at me, head bobbing side to side in what I instinctively noted as a negative, and draws an invisible loop in the air with his index finger, which he swiftly swooshes towards the locker room, where I saunter off with my mat to finish. Ok, wise guy, I get it. I'm not ready for more!

I have a relationship with this pose. I have dreaded and looked forward to it. I have loved this pose. I have hated this pose. This pose is my junior high"frenemy", my elusive college crush that I secretly stalk down the hallways, my egoic bed-fellow that keeps me grossly in my body and at the same time schools me with incredible humility. Half the people I know in Mysore, skips asking me how I am and just goes straight into: "How's your eka pada today?"

It's been a year and three months in this one posture. Technically, I first received the pose from a certified teacher two and a half years ago but stopped working on it after my first trip to Mysore. With today being the last day of regular practice, I'm likely to be working on this pose through next season.  As I stew in this asana, I recognize that Sharath has never felt more like my teacher. And that, aside from back bending, no asana has instructed me more.

Eka pada is my brick wall. It isn't the first. It won't be the last. But it's the one I keep on banging my head against recently. In ashtanga, there's always a pose to challenge us, to take us to a new edge, that keeps us alert and alive in our practice.

Sharath is tough on eka pada. In led intermediate, that's obvious, as the lady's locker room fills up after the posture. He doesn't move people forward unless they can manage it without assistance--and it's rare to get help from him on this pose. The hip needs to open, the back needs to be strong, the neck uncompromised, the head up. He wants to see space and ease in it--and god knows I'll need it in the succeeding postures, each more intense than the last. I appreciate knowing that he'll move me when he sees that I am truly ready.

Before coming to Mysore this trip, I would often say that I was "stuck in eka pada." Now, in all honesty, though not apparent to outside eyes, I know I'm moving forward. Perhaps not physically, not in a way that satisfies Sharath's standards for the asana, but there is movement none the less. Probably the kind that's more important than moving forward in the series. This posture is transforming me. It is doing its job.

Eka pada has been an excellent mirror these last three months. It has reflected back to me my ego, my expectations, my fears and issues. It has forced me to be more patient with myself and with the practice. It has taught me how to respect my body and its limitations. It has shown me the strange little balance between ease and effort. It has inspired me to dig into my emotional body and has helped me confront some of the emotions that my body has been secretly housing. It has taught me how to slowly, slowly start to release tension. It has kindled an interest in anatomy (this I still I can't believe! I've always hated anatomy!) and the bodily mechanics involved in practice. It has shifted my attention from moving forward to really refining the poses that I already have, to honoring the little details and the small improvements. It has slowed me down enough so I can "smell the flowers" on the daily path of practice.

So, I'm just going to take this moment to love my limitations, to be grateful for the difficulties, for the challenges, for these tight little hips, which are slowly opening. Thank you for teaching me so much, so quickly. 

trust

Week 2 of assisting and a grey cloud hovers over me after I do a less than stellar job back bending two advanced students to ankles. Actually, we don't even make it to ankles. But I know for a fact that they are bendy enough, not just for ankles, but higher even. Instead, we struggle. It isn't the pretty seamless assist I was going for. I mismanage it somehow, don't give enough support, don't balance the weight. My nerves, more than anything, get to me.

Afterwards, they are both so graceful about it. One, a friend also, comes up to me before she leaves the shala and encourages me to back bend her another time. I am horrified at her suggestion. Still, they are not at all the worse-case scenario older student peeved at the mere existence of assistants, let alone being "helped" unsuccessfully by one. And although I am relieved by their understanding, I also feel like I failed them, not just them, but Sharath and myself. My confidence is shaken and fear sets in.

I know I am being hard on myself. I just need to learn from my mistakes. And it's just a posture. Just one part of a lengthy series of yogasanas. But back bending, so emphasized by the attention Sharath gives to it, is very prominent hereabouts. Dropping back, coming up, walking towards one's feet and eventually grabbing ankles are major landmarks of practice here, perhaps everywhere in the ashtanga world.

(Before I go on, let's take a moment to examine just exactly how obscenely not normal it is to be in such a posture. Backbending to ankles. Seriously!? Are we nuts? Backbending extremists? Heart-opening fanatics? But it seems an ever-shifting pinnacle: getting to one's ankles--and for the extremely open--calves, knees, thighs even. Thighs! That still freaks me out!)

So, I feel bad for bungling it. I feel embarrassed at my inexperience.

I give myself lots of self pep, remind myself that I'm here to learn from Sharath. And that surely he doesn't expect me to know it all.

A friend, an experienced teacher, points out that anywhere else outside of Mysore, such assistance would be a rare occurrence, that only in Mysore do contortionists converge in such large numbers. True, I've had little opportunity to assist the pose with my little ashtanga community in the Philippines. And they're pretty bendy. Another friend said that in her city-shala of 60 plus students, there was one ankle grabber. I'm encouraged.

A couple of days later, I am still dodging students with flexible backs. And I decide to get up the courage to speak to Sharath, hoping for guidance, moral support--if you practice with this man, you probably know where this is going...

"Hi Sharath, um...so...I'm kind of afraid to take people to their ankles."

He looks at me and says matter-a-factly, "I know." He knows!

"Ahhhh..." I wait for some advice, encouragement, anything, but there is only awkward silence before he walks off to back bend someone himself.

Hokay... So much for feedback from the boss. In my optimism, I think he's leaving it to me to figure out on my own. It's not the first time. Last, year I struggled with a new posture. There was no feedback. No assistance, not even with back bending. At some point, I felt very alone as I muddled through the emotions that came up from it. By the end, however, the "personal time" was good for me. I learned a lot from it.

In practice, Sharath knows when to help and when to back off. I believe it's one of his superpowers of perception. I'm going to read his acknowledgement paired with lack of input in this particular instance as a sign that he trusts me to figure it out myself.

I know it isn't about strength. I'm dropping back guys much bigger than my petite Asian self. I understand the technique, more or less. I'm familiar with the ankle routine in my own practice. But I lack confidence. There is fear there...

Sharath's right to leave me on my own. My fear is my responsibility. I know that I can't continue to be afraid. I'm only halfway through the month of assisting and will not be able to avoid dropping back someone bendy enough for ankles. At some point I will be caught edging away from open backs, though Sharath probably sees my slipperiness already, probably smells the fear across the room. Most importantly, I just want to get on with it, I want to be totally present as I assist, and this fearfulness is getting in the way.

I look at my own practice. I ask myself, how am I at going to my own ankles? I can manage with more ease with Sharath helping me, but it is difficult when I am being assisted by someone else other than him, always stiffer somehow, a little less sure. I realize that I wasn't always "successful" (for the lack of a better word) with assistants.  It didn't add up.

Maybe it's easier with Sharath because I trust him so much. But what cause do I have to mistrust the assistants? Something in me stiffens when they are before me as I come up from backbend. Perhaps, it isn't them at all, but rather something in me. Do I trust myself in this process? Or am I relying on Sharath's magic touch to make what I still thought impossible possible? Did my mind create the conditions that made the fear difficult with others?

How can I expect others to trust me, if I myself had a hard time trusting? How can I ask someone to surrender to me, if I can't manage surrendering myself?

The following morning, Sidney, who is assisting at 4:30 comes to drop me back. In silence, I make a contract with myself. I will surrender and he will get me to my ankles. Together, we do it. It feels like a collaboration. And it's easier, so much easier than it has ever been with someone who isn't Sharath. I let something go that morning. Though Sidney doesn't know it, he participated in quite a little breakthrough. And I've been able to catch ankles with assistants each time since then.

It takes a few days to really test it. As luck would have it, I am never in the right place or right time to drop back any of the spectacularly bendy. Sometimes, I'm not fast enough, especially with Saraswathi in the room. Mama's fearless and has no qualms back bending anyone! And, in truth, I actually really enjoy assisting people who are just learning to drop back, it's a beautiful phase in the practice and I prefer assisting folks making those early steps.

Then, one morning, I'm standing in front of a female practitioner who comes up from urdhva dhanurasana. She says something and all I catch is "ankles." Here we go.

Something definitely shifts. I'm calm. And things go smoothly as we both do our part. I trust myself. And what's more, I trust her. I reckon she trusts me too. With the breath--both of us breathing together--she extends the spine and arches back. It's so fast and at the same time so beautifully slow. For me, it is an amazing moment of synchronicity and surrender between two people that don't know each other.

I reach for one wrist and then the other. There is no forcing, only a little guidance. And there in that place of trust, I find a sweet balance between being able to support her and also stepping out of the way, allowing her to reach.

I realize then that with this ankle grabbing business, I'm not supposed to do all the work. I'm support crew. People generally don't go there unless they can and the real task is not up to me really but in the heart of the practitioner finding space to go the extra distance. And for those making that first leap into this strange territory, Sharath's usually there, guiding them towards their feet.

By the end, I ceased running from ankle grabbing. But I didn't chase it either. If I was called, I would do, trusting in the process of practice, trusting in the abilities of the student, and trusting in myself. With more confidence, it all worked out fine--thank goodness!

In the end, it doesn't really matter whether I'm helping people to their ankles or not, whether we're grabbing ankles or even dropping back on our own. What matters is that the practice cultivates the courage to go beyond, to see past the fears and the limitations of our own mind, and that it refines our ability to trust, trust in others as much as trust in ourselves.