shala time

As I sip my warm milk, I nervously look at clock on the corner of my laptop. I mentally add the now-20 minutes that make up shala time--a concept so normal to us KPJAYI students. It's a bit of comedy trying to explain it: how the shala clock is set 15 minutes in advance--though, since last year, has somehow sped up to 20 minutes; how really we're expected to come 15 minutes prior to our set practice time; and how some will come 15 minutes earlier than that, which means they come 30 minutes earlier, which is in reality 50 minutes earlier, if you consider the time anywhere else outside the shala!

Miss your time, you're likely to be told off and asked to return at a later hour. Sometimes, the latest hour. Come too early, Sharath will also take notice. He'll tell people to come back closer to their time. Teacher, yoga exponent, Sharath is also the consummate time-keeper. He might not know your name to begin with, if you're brand spanking new to the shala, he may not know your practice, but you can bet he knows your time.

It's strange to see it all play out. How some people want to move up to an earlier slot and how they skillfully time their entrance to the lobby. (I'm an early bird myself and was happy to move from 8am to 4:30am over the first month. I come in early but moderately so.) Others like to linger at a particular time zone, being careful never to come early enough to be bumped up. And who can blame them for wanting some sense of normal, like evenings and dinners and such. Some cannot escape Sharath's watchful eye and are told to make the obscene leaps in practice schedule. I went from 6:30am to 4:30am at the end of my first month. I know someone who was moved from 8:30am to 4:30am--a 4-hour adjustment.

Led classes, likewise, require some diligent time-keeping--that is, if you are particular at all about where you like to place your mat, or whether you want to practice in the shala proper--late-comers often have to unroll their mats in the locker rooms or the lobby. This Friday's led primary will be condensed into 2 classes only, since I've been here, there have been 3 classes--a sure recipe for chaos, as we all try to squeeze into the shala in two full batches. It's no surprise that for led primary, people start waiting at the gate extra early.

Luckily, Conference doesn't start earlier than 4:30pm shala-time. But those that want to sit close to teacher come early for that too.

Chanting time is another breed of its own, as its Monday and Wednesday start time adjusts to the ever-shifting season. As the numbers at the shala swell, chanting gets later and later. As the numbers decrease, the start time also becomes earlier. And though the changes in time are mostly no more than 5 -minute increments each, the adjustments can be difficult to keep track of.

So far, my biggest blunder this season in time was being late for chanting one morning. Not too late, mind you, as I could hear "Vakratunda..." the opening chant to Ganesha just starting from outside the shala. However, my tardiness, did not escape Sharath, who as he was pulling out of the driveway scowled at me and my friend disapprovingly and yelled out from a moving vehicle, "Why are you late?"A rhetorical question, no doubt, as he drove off. It was somewhat shocking and it made me laugh, feeling a little like a kid caught doing something naughty at school. But I also couldn't help but take it seriously as my teacher unceremoniously reprimanded me for being late to class, recognizing that it is my responsibility to be on time. Bad lady.

Shala time is definitely quirky. Maybe a little insane. But it does keep everyone, more or less, on time--in fact, earlier than on time. It keeps us on our toes. It challenges us. It disciplines us. It keeps us, very conscious and, ironically, very present.

chanting: good vibrations

Pre-chant chatter. Students taking coconut after yogasana practice,
while others wait for chanting...
 

Again, a sea of faces. The shala is not as full as during conference, but it's not in any way roomy--an indication of how many people are here. Anxious of Sharath's occasional peeks into the shala, Lakshmish continues to scold us (in his gentle way, of course) to come closer to the stage, where he sits and leads the half-hour session of compulsory chanting, so there's room for people crowd at the lobby doors.

The start time for chanting has been changing over the last couple of weeks, from 11:30, to 11:45, to now 11:55am to accommodate the swelling numbers at the shala and the new comers finishing close to midday. Imran is still outside, hacking into coconuts for the late-finishers, who will most likely go straight back into the shala to chant. During the class, a few practitioners come out from the locker-rooms, a little disoriented to open the doors to the packed room chanting Sanskrit verses. I'm not really sure, but there must be at least two hundred of us. Possibly more.

The energy of having so many students chanting together is hard to explain. Before chanting, as people mill about the steps, the around the gate, the coconut truck across the street, there's a lot of chatter, so many little conversations amplified by number. It's a little intense--as is everything around the practice here. Then, once Prakash, allows us, we file in slowly, find our bit of carpet or marble floor. The chatter escalates until Lakshmish starts, and we suddenly all fall into step with each other: "Vakratunda mahakaya..."

The chant to Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, does the trick. And the room harmonizes. And our large number with all our voices, which seemed chaotic and dispersed only minutes before, are now sounding and feeling more cohesive. Ganesha, the god that unites, has formed us into a group, all with one agenda: to chant together for a half hour.

The years of chanting have refined our "group-ness" it seems. In 2010, during my first trip to Mysore, I remember discord, Lakshmish wincing politely as we butchered this sacred language. Then, there were two levels. Level 1 was for "new friends" while Level 2 was for "old friends," meaning only that old friends had been registered for at least a month, Level 2 mouths were a little looser and somewhat more adept at forming the Sanskrit syllables. Still, struggle was there. It was seemed one chant would take forever to get--if not right, at least--good enough.

January 2013 and the difference is quite significant. We're in no way proficient, far from it, but the improvement is significant. We're all in one group now and the vibrations from the chanting Shantihmantra, Mahisasuramardini Stotram, Bhagavad Gita, opening and closing chants, even the asana names and numbers is quite indescribable. This, too, is yoga.

Conference two weeks ago, someone asked about why was chanting made compulsory at the shala. Sharath answered that chanting is for: "self-transformation. Our mind also will be calm, which will help also for our spiritual development."

And while there is still a significant amount of people skipping the compulsory chanting classes (and some for good reasons too, some have children--though kids are welcome to run around and be kids as far as Lakshmish is concerned--while some study chanting with other teachers), it is plain to see that many more are taking the chanting classes seriously. And there's something to reciting these mantras, it vibrates deep down, and like the transformation of these chanting sessions themselves, something somehow shifts.


 

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. 

landing

It's New Year's Eve today in Mysore. Five days since arriving, and I feel like I am finally landing. In many ways it's been a smooth re-entry back. My room and new home for the month, a beautiful space belonging to a dear friend, was super clean upon arrival. My roommates are friendly and accommodating, despite me coming so early in the morning. Shala registration went without a hitch. Practice started on the 27th, a 4:30 Friday led class. And I was lucky enough to have a 2-day break with moon day and saturday one after the other.

Phone activation went a little topsy turvy when a man wielding a blade whittled down a mirco-SIM card into supposed nano-size, suitable for my new iPhone, which resulted in his professional conclusion, "Sorry, Madam, it will not fit," as he handed me the butchered SIM card. Luckily, a short walk up the road, the local Airtel center was able to issue me a replacement SIM with the same number.

Made great use of my two-dy break. Had a wonderful home-cooked meal prepared by one friend, and joined another for one at 6th Main. I spent one day visiting the new local organic shops. Then the next day sleeping off a fierce fever.

I'd settled in, visited with some friends, gotten sick, and yet didn't entirely feel like I'd arrived properly. All was good. But something was missing. Some spark that I so identify as part of the magic of Mysore, that indescribable feeling of being here, subtle electric excitement. I was starting to think: is this what it's like the third time around? Does the thrill of simply being here wear off the more frequent you visit?

It would make sense, I reasoned with myself. The newness of the place wears off, the novelty goes eventually. That's the trade off when you start to really get to know a place. And I did feel this wonderful sense of homecoming, seeing so many familiar faces, feeling a strong sense of camaraderie. I do enjoy the ease of returning this time around, slipping back as if I was continuing seamlessly a journey that started two years and three months ago.

This morning, when I was in down dog (being a bad lady and thinking of something other than the posture at hand) and I was surveying the shala underneath my body. I was wondering how maybe the next phase of practice was this lack of feeling, that maybe this is a part of non-attachment, but then, what would keep me coming back here? -- I promise, it was a short reverie and not an overly-long downward-facing dog.

Without me knowing, things started to shift. There was no more thinking. I was just practicing. I was just breathing. I was just jumping forward or jumping back, folding forward or bending back. In no time, practice was done. Before I left the shala, I proceeded with what has become such an integral part of my personal practice here in Mysore, I stand at the door, facing the direction of Sharath and bow to him in gratitude and respect as I take my leave. And unless he's in the office or assisting a student in something really complicated, Sharath always takes part in this small exchange, which feels like the sum total of our teacher-student relationship.

And as I gestured in namaste I felt, so suddenly, all the magic that had been missing. I broke out into a huge smile, which Sharath also returned.

Landing now, I know that the magic is still here. It's everywhere and nowhere at once. Its essence exists in each moment of genuine connection, whether it is between a person and a place, between two or more people, or between a student and a teacher.

Mysore Christmas

Last year, I definitely thought i'd hit my limit with two Christmases in a row in Mysore. I missed my family, missed holiday cheer.

And yet here I am on Christmas day at Manila's airport, awaiting the first leg of travel that will end on my friend's doorstep in Gokulam early tomorrow morning.

I guess I am eager to get back, to practice with Sharath, to dig deeper into my own process. I guess what I realize is that I miss Mysore as well, that the depth of practice, the sense of community calls me to another kind of home, where a different kind of family awaits.

So I have split this precious holiday, spending the Eve, a big all night to-do in the Philippines, and the morning of Christmas Day with the family I was born into (also chosen to some extent) while setting off by midday to meet with the family I have consciously chosen, a motley crew of serious but also light hearted yoga practitioners, a humorous and occasionally stern teacher (the father figure to us all), a sweetly smiling though tough loving mama, and all the wonderful characters that make up the magic of Mysore.

getting ready, round three

With Nataraja's blessing, hoping to dance my way
to Mysore this season!

Application received. Registration confirmed. Tickets bought. Currently, in hot pursuit, for a place to hang my mat. But with the nature of accommodation in Mysore and with two and a half months to go, there's time (Though I would appreciate any leads!).

There's time to prepare, to check in with my yogasana practice that has suffered greatly over the months of travel in the cool European climate--so unlike the tropical heat I am used to.

There's time to examine the 11 months between visits, where life inevitably happens, each factor--whether it's work, love, relationships, self-doubt, doubts about practice itself, etc, etc, etc...--pulls you away from the mat but at the same time posits the areas that need working on.

There's time to make new goals.

Yet, I am hesitant to define clear objectives, which may give rise to desire, ambition, attachment, and eventually disappointment. Plus, the plain truth is that part of the magic of Mysore is that you can hardly ever even begin to imagine what stuff will come up, what new physical pains, what old emotional baggage, what deeply-buried but long forgotten desire will boil up to the surface. Because we all know the practice, the people, the energy of the place, the abandon that we sometimes surrender with will stir things up. Cuz' Mysore can sometimes have a different plan for you, whether you like it or not!

So I guess if I were to make a new goal for this third season in Mysore it would be this: that I stay open to whatever lessons come, that I might have the grace to accept the unknown, that I might be open to change while maintaining my center, remembering always who I am and what is important to me.

Dear Guruji

Dear Guruji,

We've not met. Not in this lifetime. Still, today, I light a candle for you. Your own light has shone brightly in my life. Your teaching, this incredible system, lit a path in what felt was relative darkness. Your work has changed me, my life, from who I thought I was to who I believe I truly must be. For this, I am eternally grateful.

I feel your energy. In Mysore, at the shala. In the mysore rooms in Manila. Up here, at Cohiba in Boracay Island where we practice to the rising sun. Down the ways at The Temple, where I do my best to participate in this wondrous tradition. In rooms all around the world, where this deep rhythmic breath fuels the fluidity of yogasana movement. Oh the lives you have shifted! And mine among them.

I don't pretend to have figured things out. I continue to be a student. Stumbling and learning. Feeling challenged and humbled. Constantly surprised by how little I know, constantly overcome by awe of each and every day that unfolds with this ashtanga practice.

I feel so incredibly blessed to have been given this tool, this key, to living fully, wholly, freely.

Thank you, Guruji.