Post Mysore Survival Tip: Mysore Debriefing

It's been a while since I've written. I suppose that is a symptom of the world outside of Mysore. Beyond the safe walls of Mysore's yoga bubble, life takes over. There's work, relationships, making a living, surviving. Time is no longer my own to dispense with as I see fit. Responsibilities and debts have to be paid. The real world is not a yoga vacation but a yoga trial, where the challenge of fitting it all in with a 6-day a week practice can nearly be insurmountable.

And life has been full--of everything!--since my return from Mysore. There has been confusion and heartache and sadness. There has also been discovery and joy and love. It has been totally and absolutely full on!

You hear stories around Gokulam. "The things that happen to people when they go to Mysore." People go nuts. They move half way across the world. The leave their jobs. They quit their marriages. They go buck wild or plain old fashioned crazy. And I remember listening to these stories bemused and confident, thinking to myself, that's not going to happen to me. I'm content with my life. I wouldn't change a thing. But change is not something we control, it is something that happens quite naturally, and with much speed if yoga has anything to do with it.

And what quite naturally happened to me was a healthy dose of Post-Mysore-traumatic disorder. Things that appeared fine from an old angle, appeared decidedly different. For me, it was how I was living and the choices I'd made. And from the moment I started to head home, the world as I knew it started to fall apart. Perhaps this world had seen that I was no longer the same, that the wheels of fortune had spun in a different direction, and things that used to fit would fit no longer.

I'm not good with confrontations. And no amount of yoga had changed that. Cowardly as it was, instead of going home to Boracay to deal with it, I did the opposite: I joined a yoga workshop in Manila. Govinda Kai was in town back in early Feb (at Bliss Yoga).

Things had come full circle. Claudia and I were together again. And were it not for Claudia, I would not have taken the bulk of the workshop.

Ironically enough, the workshop itself became a vehicle to cope with my shifting world. In a nutshell, it became my Mysore debriefing, helping me to understand the complete upheaval that I was going through, which according to Govinda is quite normal.

A year ago, when I asked Govinda (he was in Boracay for a workshop) for advice about going to Mysore. He said that I should go for 3 months. He said that the first month was for "getting used to it," the second was for "falling apart" and the third was for "coming back together again." When I reminded him of his advice, he quipped something like, "and then when you return everything falls apart again." He didn't include that vital piece of information a year ago. In any case, he couldn't have been more right.

Govinda listened as I explained the mess I was coming back to, how I was now afraid to return to my once so orderly life. But Govinda helped confirm what I felt in my bones, that the changes I'd personally felt were good. All he said was this, when comparing me to our first visit a year ago, "You are more present." And I could really feel it.

Coming back from Mysore, I really appreciated the intense practice that happens when Govinda holds space. But beyond that, the series of lectures that he shared with our group slowly debriefed me from my India experience, it gave me time to process all this new information, new programming, it organized my thoughts, and put words to what seemed like undefinable feelings.

He talked about love and relationships and how these can be wonderful vehicles of self discovery, he shared a deeper perspective on sex (but not SEX sex, rather the polarities between masculine and feminine), he talked about backbending as integration and arm balances as a means for creating space. (And boy, can Govinda talk! By the end of the week, he had no voice). His lectures clicked with many of us and I really related to all the themes in such a personal way. They shed light on so many things.

When time came to go home, I was steadied by my time with family and friends in Manila and with Govinda and his time-tested wisdom. I was ready for the storm--admittedly half of which was of my making--and rough winds were waiting.

Connecting to Mother Mysore, Odanadi Yoga Stops Traffick in Boracay Island

Mysore continues to be real for me. Everyday, as I read updates on facebook, as I recite the opening prayer on my mat, as I recall the memories of the two and a half months that I spent there, my mind fixes on it, the city and the shala, the people and the energy, the yoga community as a whole.

I miss the energy of it. The quantity and the quality of that energy focused on yoga is both exciting and overwhelming. In Mysore, I felt fueled by the community around me. And though I love the tight knit group of dedicated yoga friends that I practice with here in Boracay, in the Philippines, we're a small group driven predominantly by an easy-going island vibe. While the island itself is only 7 kilometers long (with the thinnest width of the island a measly 1 kilometer), its small pockets of yoga barely every cross or meet.

Then, I started to see all the announcements go up on facebook from my Mysore community--some of whom by that time, were spread out around the world in their respective homes. Everywhere it seemed people were rallying around Odanadi Yoga Stops Traffick, the event that creates awareness against the trafficking of women and children and raises money for the caiuse. I felt that we needed to take part somehow. I felt the need for that sense of togetherness here too.

So on March 12, I felt the strongest connection to Mysore since returning home to Boracay, in the Philippines, as our own island yoga community gathered for 108 Sun Salutations, joining over a hundred participating studios and organizations world wide for Odanadi Yoga Stops Traffick.

Within the Mandala Spa shala, eight resident teachers led part of the 108. Clayton Horton of Greenpath started things off followed by Nicole Serrano, Mo-ching Yip, Stacey Memije, Markus Duss, Margaux Palau, Sebastian Stroeber and myself. After a wonderful savasana, Clayton led us in Kirtan and a short meditation for the victims of the recent earthquake and tsunami in Japan. In total there were 24 participants, packing the shala.

In the end, we raised not only PhP10,800 but we also raised the bar in terms of our own local yoga community.

Quicken, Ode to Saraswathi

Quicken

My pulse quickens as she approaches. I try, oh God, I try to breathe. Slowly. Deep, even breaths. But I can't help it, I can't help the stress from racing my pulse.

It is part anxiety, part excitement when I see her in front of me--well, actually, from behind me--well, actually, both. I peek at her from behind my heels, her colorful pajama pants hiding what people say are fine looking legs.

Ok, so breathe. There is no escaping it now. I see her feet wait. I inhale and heave myself up into standing, where she is before me, a head shorter than myself. She places her hands behind my hips. Her fingers are light, but her hold is steady.

Oh, God. Here it comes. I wish she would smile. When she smiles, the entire shala lights up. And her eyes are kind, easing away my fear of her, of her folding and unfolding me like a piece of sheet cloth in the wind. Mamma. Saraswathi.

--This piece was written during one of the writing circles conducted by Deborah Crooks and fellow shala student writers Benji, Leena, Dorota, and Alex (who joined once), I miss you guys. I miss exchanging words with you all!

Some words on Mamma...

I've spoken at great lengths about Sharath since he was my teacher those months in Mysore. But Saraswathi too has a strong presence in the shala. I would always hear her towards the end of my practice, her soft voice echoing ethereally over the pulsating bodies as she chanted, sometimes she sounded like she was humming.

She's an incredibly strong yet tiny woman, who can with total ease drop back a man over twice her size. She is beyond sturdy, an immovable force from which you can anchor yourself to.

I would often see her hovering over friends with very open backs, she would always magically turn up as they entered that crucial moment. (Saraswathi was once a great back bender--and apparently takes great pleasure in helping others attain such heights--with hands on their thighs that is!)

During my time at the shala, my feelings for her went through several phases. The first was fear and anxiety. I'd heard that she was a toughie when it came to adjustments. Over an email my friend Stacey reminded me before I left for India, when she comes to you, just breath, relax, she's incredibly strong. Gulp, I thought!

I remember my first with her. It was so fast, I didn't quite know what hit me. And then paschimatanasana! I'll never forget the force in which she pressed me. It felt like she had made a running start because I lurched forward so strikingly. And when she released me, I actually bounced back from the delayed inertia.

Eventually, the fear did pass. And I started to enjoy her terribly efficient quick as lightning drop backs. 1, 2, 3. Wham bam, thank you, mam! "One More," she would yell to the foyer as I quickly rolled up my mat to finish in the locker room. It was a welcome break from the depth in which Sharath was asking me to go, walking me closer and closer to my ankles.

Then at some point, I actually enjoyed the deep back bending and would note with some sorrow when Saraswathi would be before me. She sped through me. And it would be done too quickly.

Then towards my last three weeks, I started to struggle less and less in back bending. I started to relax in the pose. My breathing was deeper. I could grab my heels (with Sharath's help) and it ceased to be a horrifying experience. Time would stop and all would be well.

By my last week, I was surprised to find myself hovering as I dipped backward. It was a new experience to go slowly. And for the last two times of the trip that Saraswathi appeared before me, she guided my hands to my ankles as I came down. The first time I felt her hand on my wrist, I remembered what Stacey said and I simply surrendered. I think that was the moment I really began to trust her, just days before my final departure.

For me, it was a special gift, an acknowledgement of how far I'd come. The following day, she was there again. I had more difficulty the second time, but when I came up she smiled her famous smile and gave me some advice, the first words she'd actually spoken to me the entire trip.

In the end, I didn't get to say goodbye. But I know that I will see her again. And who knows what combination of feelings she will inspire. Whatever they may be, I definitely look forward to it.

Mysore Extracuricular: Crochet Club

At Anu's with Rich, Jenn and Harish. Jun Pe snuck in.
The itty bitty hat I'm holding is my first hat--
which is obviously too small for my head.

At Anouki's. With Rich, Katherine and Alin.

This is a seriously inappropriate hobby to have in the tropics, I think to myself as I make tidy little balls from yards and yards of thick woolly yarn, no doubt the strangest thing I brought back from India (in pale pink, purple, green and gray).

In the first stages of my "Mysoresickness," I even insisted on wearing the leg warmers I made (1/3 of a set of triplets, Ursula in Osaka and Deva in Mysore have the other two, Heidi in Helsinki owns their cousin--all of them have the right to be wearing theirs) to practice. Sure, it was cool for the Philippines. It was 5:45am cool in the Philippines. But who am I kidding? It is not only hot, it is humid, and I've totally missed the two week period in December when there's an ever-so-slight chill in the air mostly in the evenings only warranting a long sleeve shirt or a shawl. Otherwise, it is plain old hot and humid.

After my second day of forcing the issue, my friend Christina when boarding the car saw the thick cold-weather leg warmers on the passenger seat, pointed at the them and asked with concern, "Were you wearing these?" Christina, a model slash DJ and my most fashionable friend, looked horrified. The fluffy, cozy winter-warmers have no place here, she might as well said.

I haven't worn them since, though I've been tempted to blast the AC on high in order to make use of them in the morning on the way to the yoga studio. I'm still crocheting, however. I just can't stop myself. I'm finishing a hat for my niece in Singapore. Again, tropical weather, inappropriate present.

Still I continue. I feel calm doing it. And it reminds me of Mysore.

When I first arrived in late October, crochet was all the rage. Everyone seemed to know how. Guys and girls. You could find diligent enthusiasts at the shala gates whiling away the waiting by hooking and pulling, hooking and pulling their string of yarn into homemade creations. There were pockets of the crochet community everywhere, meeting in private homes and in public cafes.

I started over chocolate almond smoothies at Anu's cafe, where a group met to crochet in the afternoons over their evening tea and smoothies. Richard from England, along with Alin from So Cal was almost always frenetically at it. Jenn from Canada was all pro and was knitting. Katherine was doing a refressher. Juliana was a natural. Me, not so.

Richard's enthusiasm for the sport was catchy. Before long I had purchased my own yarn and and crochet needle and was knotted up and stumbling on my fingers. Richard was patient. And many others helped give me little tips along the way.

The Odanadi Fundraiser in late November was the crochet event. Many an amateur craftsman and craftswoman donated their creations to sell for the benefit of the Odanadi street children. In all it was a testament of the shala students' commitment to helping the local community AND their love for crochet!

I was a total newbie at the time and was still on my first hat, which though was meant for me appeared to be shrinking in size. In the end I had produced a rather small hat suited for a baby. Such was my learning curve. My second hat completed by Christmas was a perfect elf hat--quite by accident.

But I kept at it. At home. In front of the shala gates at 4 in the morning. At practically any dead moment.

In a way, it's become a sort of sitting meditation. Something positive and creative to keep my vata self occupied. It's been good to learn something new, to see my own progression, to improve with each project--much like life at the shala, practice and patience, practice and patience.

Changes

The view from my plane, from Singapore to Manila.
Reminds me of that phrase "sky's the limit."

It is nearly two weeks since I left Mysore. And the place continues to work on me. As with asana practice, I try to relax, inhale and exhale deeply, allowing it to do its magic, resisting as little as possible. It is a challenge to remain flexible, especially back in the real world.

I quite ignorantly said, before I ever left home, that I would not change. Though in essence I am the same person, it was not a realistic promise (and I am sorry for making it). Change is constant. And if you spend a long enough time in Mysore, if you surrender to your yoga practice, if you willingly allow yourself to go down the rabbit hole, change will be inevitable. It might be subtle, drastic, physical, emotional, spiritual, or more likely a crazy combination of all the above--so wide is the scope of this deep yoga practice, so deep is its reach, so sneaky too--I barely noticed myself until wham! here I am.

Since Mysore, I continue to feel these "shifts." They are these little tremors, aftershocks that typically follow a big quake. Mysore was that for me, groundbreaking.

Physically, I see the changes. Having had no full-length mirror for the last one and a half months in Mysore (I bought a round little thing, 6 inches in diameter to braid my hair in the morning), I am totally amazed to see myself, whole self, so healthy. I feel some changes too in my stamina, flexibility and strength. Ursula told me that I would be surprised with my own practice after I returned from Mysore. That has yet to happen, but I believe it will. Everything in good time.

Mentally, there are shifts too. I feel like I am thinking with more clarity. I feel more aware of my own thought processes. I caught myself today thinking as I was being asked by the bank guard to move my car, I was already out in the rain, "Don't be upset, he's right, he's only doing his job, you'll only get a little wet." Within a second I'd got over the inconvenience. I've been driving in Manila for a week now and I've noted at least a half dozen moments that could have transformed into road rage, I thoughtfully let it pass along with the haphazard drivers of buses and jeepneys that dominate these streets.

Emotionally, I feel more FULL STOP. My friend Alena, once accused me of over using the word "surrender" while teaching yoga. And she's right. I love to say it. I know the importance of it in ashtanga and in life. And to some degree, here and there I have surrendered. But that whole-hearted surrender happened in Mysore, a little each day at practice (all this crazy back-bending perhaps?) and finally culminating around New Year's at the Shiva temple in Chamundi Hill. Since then, I can physically feel my cruddy little heart opening. Untold emotions have since eeked out and continues to do so. It is inconvenient and there seems to be no end to it. It is also incredibly beautiful to feel so...alive.

Some changes will take some getting used to like my renewed commitment to psuedo-vegetarianism. I've been eating fish post-Mysore. Though, I'll probably get used to it faster than my family will. I feel more sensitive to my environment and to the people around me. I quietly wigged out the two times my family and I went to the mall, which is a real shift because I usually love the mall. There was something unsettling about the energy, the bright artificial lights, the buzzing shoppers and excessive retail.

Then there are the changes that I choose to make. Changes that are motivated by both my newly-gotten mental clarity and this spooky heart-opening. These, I think, will be the hardest to go through because it will be me (not Mysore) who will have to be the master of change. They are pesky decisions that disrupt the status quo. They won't always be easy. They might hurt a little, sometimes a lot. But they are necessary and they are honest.

Everyday, I revel in the mystery of Mysore and it's transformative powers. Everyday, I remind myself that change is good.

Missing Mysore

Hutch and Alex and I at KL airport.


Cutie pie Amelie, my niece, and I in front of Year of the Rabbit display in Singapore.


The fabulous Filipino ashtangis feasting after practice for B-day potluck.



So far, the hardest thing to write about is the journey home.

I definitely have Mysore withdrawal symptoms. It isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It’s not like I get the shakes or anything. Missing Mysore is subtler than that.

My body misses the routine, morning practice and shala energy. It has been lonely and uncooperative over the last few self-practices.

My mind misses the concentration, input of Sharath during conference and interactions with fellow students, the talks of yoga and the talks you have when you have had enough of talks of yoga.

My heart misses India.

The first few days, I was in a daze, head cloudy of recent Mysore memories, which I am blessed to take home with me. I would smile and try to be present, as I continuously let the intensity of the last 2 and half months wash over me. I was sleepwalking. I couldn’t quite vocalize how I felt. I couldn’t explain. Not at the start anyway.

In many ways, luck has been on my side. I’ve not jumped directly back into the matrix of my “real life.” I’ve taken a slow route, visiting family in Singapore and Manila (where I am now as I write this) before heading back to my own little island nation, Boracay.

And at every stop, there seems to be a reminder that the world outside Mysore is a friendly place. In the airport at Kuala Lampur, when faced with about 6 hours of waiting between flights, I quite shockingly bumped into two Filipino friends Hutch and Alex, who were en route to India. I impart some India wisdom and they keep me company until my morning flight.

In Singapore’s Budget Terminal, I board the taxicab of Mr. Ali, who asks me out of healthy curiosity why I practice yoga. This is an interesting question to get soon after departing from Mysore and I am surprised at how easily I answer, “I feel closer to God.” I explain in brief ishvarapranidhanadva, which animates, Mr. Ali, a Muslim who says that in Islam they don’t use the word surrender but instead submission. A liberal man, he philosophizes about how he doesn’t understand those who claim their religion without studying, without practicing. I tell him it is just like yoga.

This first conversation in Singapore was comforting, that somehow it was a reminder that the spirit of yoga that I saw so alive and well in Mysore lives and breathes outside of India. It comes in different packages, but the essence is somehow preserved.

The unobtrusive comforting ways of family also played a role in my reintegration back into reality, as they ushered me through Singapore's extremely clean environs, mostly from one meal to the other (that's what Filipino families do, eat), a welcome activity since I just realized I have lost 7 kilos over this trip, interspersed with shopping (a trip to Ikea and the giant Konikuya bookstore was a total shock to the system).

Today, in my first full day back in Manila, I went to practice at a local ashtanga studio called Stillpoint in Makati. It was interesting to participate in a different energy, to be adjusted quite liberally, sometimes by two teachers at a time. It was great but odd. I appreciated the intimate numbers and wonderful help with alignment, but I also missed being swallowed in the powerful anonymity of the shala, seemingly forgotten but silently being worked on.

It was a great yoga homecoming too as we gathered for a triple birthday potluck after wards. This was yoga Filipino style, a hard morning’s practice followed by an opulent feast (We Filipinos know how to live it up!). And after eating, I started to talk about Mysore to those that asked about it. Once I got started, it was as if I couldn’t stop. I wanted to share and vocalize my experience. I wanted to repeat the words “Mysore” and “shala” and “Sharath,” as a means of remembering and celebrating my time there.

Last Practice

Shots from that last Anouki's farewell breakfast, with the October-Novemebr-December peeps!

Today's practice was bittersweet. Never have I been more tuned in to the sights and sounds of the shala. Never have I been more conscious that it would be a while before I would experience them again. It would be my last here at Mysore for a while.

I wasn't alone. The knowing smiles at the gate, the sympathetic squeezes from friends at the ladies locker room, Pedro--who I have been consistently in the row behind me most of the trip--saying goodbye. I had to face it. My time was up!

There was nothing left to do but simply enjoy it despite being so tired.

I was utterly pooped from the long goodbye. Ursula and I started it off with a joint casual farewell breaky at Anouki's garden on Saturday. A head start, we thought. And it just never stopped. The days since were filled with little gatherings and intimate get-togethers, solidifying the bonds formed over the last 2 and a half months. Then Ursula left. I was next in line.

I looked around me before I started practicing. I saw the familiar faces of now friends who are near my own mat, each beautifully focused on his or her own practice. I thought about what a wonderful support they have been, whether they know it or not. How amazing it was to be in their presence, each having something spectacular to share about themselves. How inspiring they are to me, their love and their commitment.

As I practiced, I listened to the cumulative breath, the whole room in continuous motion, inhaling and exhaling. Though not in unison, the discord in breath reminded me of the ocean. I imagined letting the waves of breath wash over me. I was soaking in it.

I dove in, tired or not, trying to enjoy the presentness of the practice. I fetl alive when I practiced. And connected. Connected to myself. To the shala. To the people sharing the room. To the practice itself.

I broke from this amazing flow as I neared backbends. I wondered who would drop me back on my last day at the shala. Would it be an assistant? And if so, would I have the hutzpa to hold out? Would it be Saraswathi, who has ceased to scare me? Or would it be Sharath. I really hoped for Sharath.

And there he was as I came up from my last backbend.

"Last day?" he asked and grinned as I nod and say yes.

He gently bobbed me up and down, encouraged my hands to my heels, then hoisted them around my ankles. It all went by so quickly. Before I knew it, I was tugged back up. He said "Good" quietly before pressing me into paschimatanasana.

"One more," he said.

It was over. I felt a cloud of emotions filming over my eyes. I choked back tears and took myself to the ladies locker room where I sniffled through a longer lingering paschimatanasana.

That's was when it hit me: I would miss my teacher. For that is what Sharath is to me now. I wanted to cry because I am going to miss him, his steady presence and gentle but confident assistance. I'm going to miss his subtle, quiet guidance. I am going to miss Mysore. The practice, the fellow practitioners, the cows, everything.

Still all good things must come to the end. And it's no small comfort knowing that all ends are beginnings.

***

I have left Gokulam now. And am making my way slowly to the little island where I live in the Philippines. However, this process, what I call "Realizing Mysore" is far from over. It continues to work beneath the surface and it's surprises, I feel, will continue to bubble forth. In this respect, I will continue to write this blog. Plus, there are somethings about Mysore I still haven't been able to share. I hope all who read this will indulge me further as I continue to share my observations. Namaste!