aditya hrdayam (heart of the sun) in the house of light

First Kirtan at James' Saraswathipuram home and teaching space,
which vibrates with so much bhakti.

Tomorrow, I'll be singing to the sun--easily part of a typical day here in Mysore, where yoga practice takes all sorts of shapes outside the primary series. Part of what I love about being here is how some oddball yoga-related activities, which seem totally strange outside any yoga-context, seems totally pedestrian.

Classes resume at what I like to call the "house of light," James Boag's residence and teaching space. Tomorrow, Tuesday, January 15, James starts a series of lectures and chanting classes having to do with the Ramayana, particularly the Aditya Hrdayam, a hymn given to Rama, the hero of the Ramayana, to vanquish the 10-headed demon Ravana.

The Aditya Hrdayam has figured somewhat prominently in my life since my first trip to Mysore, over 2 years ago, starting when Lakshmish introduced the chant during the new compulsory chanting classes. Without understanding a word of it, I resonated with the sound of it immediately. My friend Momo was chanting it in his borrowed Mysore home, where I noticed his copy of Guruji's book on Surya Namaskara. I bought my own copy immediately.

The heart of the sun continued to come into my life in varied forms. There was a beautiful animated live storytelling of the Ramayana and a modernized retelling by Ramesh Menon (a great read! He makes the epic so lively!). The way James chanted the hymn sank deep into my memory. I had last-song syndrome of a very different kind. On mornings, when I had time, I would recite it on my own, occasionally sharing it at the start of classes.

And over that time, the heart of the sun was shining its rays on my own life, blasting away darkness, helping me to see things clearly. There has been so much change over the last two years, some serious upheavals, as well as some amazing opportunities.

Though, this will be the first time for me to properly study it, I feel like it has done its job just the way ashtanga works as a practice. Without knowing much about its particulars, I simply embraced the chant, I surrendered to its magic, I let it do its work. Energetically, I feel the benefits of it, how it vibrates when I sing it, how its lessons have somehow been absorbed into my person.

Now, however, time has come to go deeper, to develop a deeper understanding of the text and what it means to my own life.


Between now and end of March, James teaches Tuesdays and Thursdays, 10:30-12:30. The Aditya Classes will then be followed by classes on the Bhagavad Gita, chapters 4, 5 and 6. More details and directions to the house of light can be found on www.jamesboagyoga.com. 

play and sing

Kirtan, 3 Weeks ago at Mumuksha.

Last call for Acro Yoga with my dear friend Paul Millage this afternoon at Anokhi's Garden. He's off to Hampi on Monday and eventually back to Washington state, so if you want to fly, come and play between 2-4pm today. Classes are donation basis. Recommended is P500--but he's totally cool with you paying according to your means.

This also means that this Friday will be his last Kirtan in Gokulam (for a year at least). He and James Boag, along with Ganesh on tablas and Liz Boag will be at the Kirtan at Mumuksha at 5:30pm today. The regular kirtan at Saraswathipuram goes on as scheduled this Sunday, 1:30-3:10pm (behind the Palace Honda Showroom).

poetry in motion

I could be in the thick of asana practice. I feel hot all over. Beads of sweat form along my hairline. I take a deep inhale and exhale as I focus my eyes on the words before me. No, this is more intense than practice, I think to myself, as I prepare to dig deep within and share.

At least that's how I felt last Saturday, January 7 when I read out my poems at a special themed kirtan. The theme was "love" and I dug out my most recent love poems to share with--luckily--an intimate gathering.

Ok, so... I write poetry. I don't know why, but admitting it always feels like I'm revealing a dirty little secret. I've even been debating in my head the blog-worthiness of the event, which sort of says a lot about my own sense of self-worth, especially when it comes to my writing. Beyond all else, I get nervous sharing my poems, they're windows to who I am, they reveal me at my most vulnerable. Through them, I am all exposed nerve--ironically, much like what the practice is doing to me presently.

It was the first time I'd shared my work in Mysore to an audience. And it couldn't be more perfect. It was a small group, they were open and receptive, they'd come for kirtan after all at James' in Saraswathipuram, they'd come to sing their hearts out, they'd come knowing that "love" was on the table.

It's beautiful to read to a receptive audience. I always feel that I get as much I give, that there is this beautiful exchange when you speak your truth and someone is there listening, receiving it, making it their own, finding their own truth in the words I've strung together. In that way, writing poetry and performing spoken word has always drawn me, it has so much power to shift perspective, to share emotion, to describe the indescribable.

As I read, I feel absorbed in the moment. In between words and stanzas, there is some understanding of the way the world works, of the complexities of love, that I don't always recognize in the life outside the page--and the sphere off the mat, as this expression is so much like the process of yoga, of incredible discovery. Yoga and poetry feel linked to me and I guess that's why the kirtan worked so well with the reading of poetry. James shared "If" by Rudyard Kipling and Paul Millage read a couple of Rumi verses.

I wish I could live the way I write, just as much as I wish I could live the way I practice. Ultimately, I think whatever we engage in, whatever the thing we love to do whether it's yoga or writing or teaching or cooking or building or being parent, we should do it fully and with purpose. And as we do, our lives become more and more like poetry in motion.


One of the poems I shared:

The Miracle

1.
Aspens quake and we pause,
fingers twined, ears attentive.
We listen to the forest chime,
leaves aquiver in soft symphony.
We think they honor us
as they clap leaf to leaf and
we take in the trail, the trees, the
dome of blue swathed in cotton,
walls of endless mountain ranges,
nearby gurgling water, all of which
we inevitably associate with
the miracle of us. We are
encouraged as applause
travels in waves across
a frothing sea of green.
The tree line glitters
and we kiss, once again,
slowing our progress
down the mountain.


2.
Later, we are informed
that their synchronicity is not
our good luck or great timing,
neither can it be attributed
to the magic of our love—
as much as we might contest this.
Rather, their song is older than
time, instruments so finely
tuned, so precisely selected;
they are designed for life,
efficient bathing in sunlight,
dancing foliage throwing
off mite-sized predators,
seeds carried by wind,
aspens growing a landscape.

3.
We will not see this, but
when time comes and the last
of our summer sets on these hills,
the trees will change together.
Miles will turn golden, as if
their gentle cooing triggers
the very moment in which they
harmonize their autumn robes,
in that inconceivable act of
solidarity, love among trees,
miracle of miracles.

4.
The real secret is this:
Aspens stand autonomously, but
each is an echo of an original tree.
The whir of woods starts deep below,
where the mightiest of roots do grow,
and from each root hundreds and
thousands of saplings spring
with leaves already trained to sing.
Like us, a colony of trees is one force,
drawing strength from one true source,
this is where the miracle starts,
it is a song sung straight from the heart.

--Karen Castillo

I'd like to thank everyone who came, listened and shared energy that kirtan. The two poems were very personal and I felt very safe and loved sharing them. I'd like to especially thank James Boag for his constant encouragement with my poetry and writing. I'm blessed to have such friends and supporters. There will hopefully be another poetry-kirtan event while I'm still here. In the meantime, the singing continues at Saraswathipuram Wednesday 2-4pm and Sunday 1:30-3:10pm (yellow house, behind Palace Honda Showroom).

letting go and embracing change, new year 2012

Puja for Sri Maheshwara.

My past patterns and samskaras burning up--
well, at least on paper, for now.

Forecast said rain today and so did the sky, which was a soupy gray. I think it's fitting to have rain on New Year's Eve. I like the idea of washing away all the ills of the passing year, clearing out the air, starting 2012 fresh.

Mysore in general has this magic quality, which when you tap into it has a very potent power. People who come here leave somehow transformed. Even if you don't intend it, the practice seeps in deep. And change is inevitable.

Now, combine this potency with the power of intention, then multiply this by the amount of folks practicing yoga here with their minds focused and hearts open, bent on surrendering to a higher purpose, on a day full of wishing, praying and intention-making. It's an amazing combination, an alchemical solution, a very special energy that can inspire real, tangible change.

Last year, I had one of the most beautiful--and as it turns out, the most powerful--of New Year's Eves. The sun had just set on Chamundi Hill, and I'd written down all that which I wanted to let into my life: love, true connections, the opportunity to come back to Mysore and study at the shala, closer bonds with family and friends, a healthier life and outlook. It was a very general list but a far cry from the reality of my life a year ago. Now, a year on, I'm amazed at how much of what I hoped for during that night came true.

Today, I wanted to observe the coming New Year in a way that would manifest the changes I want in my life. So, I piled into a rickshaw with a beautiful posse of girlfriends and rode up to Chamundi armed with pens, paper, candles and incense sticks. There, we made a swift beeline to the quiet and grace-filled Sri Maheshwara temple a little behind and above the over-crowded Chamundeshwari Temple, the true highlight of the sacred hill. We broke our coconuts in the "Coconut Breaking Station," presented our offerings, then found ourselves a covered corner where we wrote the things that we were letting go of and the things we were inviting in the new year.

The sheet paper with things we wanted to manifest went in an envelope, while the things that we wanted to release, we burned--which didn't come easy with the density of the paper, the dampness caused by the steady drizzle, and the breeziness of midday. We fumbled with lighters as we re-lit the candles over and over. I guess, it's hard to undo our habits and patterns, not just literally but figuratively too. If last year's ritual was about surrendering, this year's is about letting go.

Afterward, I went to a special themed kirtan on "Rebirth," which was being led by dear friends James Boag, Paul Millage and Raddha, which went on an unprecedented 4 hours--an hour longer than the advertised time. And though our numbers dwindled towards the end, the space was charged with song, frequencies of love and devotion, bhakti at its very finest.

It was an emotional kirtan for me. One, because it was just plain old beautiful to sing with so many open-hearted people. Two, because change, as much as I try to embrace it, is hard to do, difficult to accept. And for the last year, I have lived in a world of change, transformation that I myself manifested, but have not, until now, realized the full scope of. I can't help but cry at the discomfort of such a metamorphosis, I can't help but mourn that which I feel attachment for, I can't help but feel the struggle that comes with letting things go.

It's now just past midnight. Fireworks are raging all over Mysore. It's pretty tame in Gokulam, but there is an occasional shout, "Happy New Year!" Standing on my rooftop, I watch the sporadic light show over residential buildings. I inhale the brisk air. I open my arms up to the night sky, quietly embracing yet another new day, another new moment, my heart hopefully ready for the next wave of change.

(Click here for last year's ritual)