I've come to think that happiness isn't really produced by conscious accomplishments. Happiness is a measure of how thickly the unconscious parts of our minds are intertwined with other people and with activities. happiness is determined by how much information and affection flow through us covertly every day and year." in Social Animal, by David Brooks, New Yorker, January 17, 2011.
I have had my suspicions about the achievement, money, acquisitions, theory of happiness for sometime now. Perhaps, since those long years working on the dissertation where one has to break down happiness into much smaller chunks if one is to survive such a long, sustained, and mostly uneventful, unrecognized, financially depleting endeavor. Imagining myself walking on the stage accepting that cape and diploma did fuel some work, as well as fantasies about a well-paying and stimulating tenure-track job, but putting off happiness for months then years as these fantasies required, wouldn't take me long past breakfast before I was utterly exhausted by the enormity of the task at hand.
Happiness, well-being, I found, in my morning walk, bike ride into the office, that really strong coffee they served in the student lounge. There were the children I played with at summer camps during breaks from school, Saturdays and Sundays (when I finally stopped working on the weekend), watching Love Boat after the late late news. There were the friends from so many different countries who filled my mind with new stories, fiction, and yoga which I started 20 years ago and haven't stopped since.
The walk across the stage never happened nor did that perfect tenure-track job materialize. The happiness that came from all that hard work was just that; happiness pried free in the moment exploring a new thought, feeling the spring breeze, sharing my worries with friends. I cried after the defense because it was over, because it was so anti-climactic, because I had learned of the sheer beauty of effort, in an of itself.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Compose Yourself
A composition of me, musically speaking, would include strings, brass, woodwinds, and timpani. Pluck me, blow with vibrato, touch the skin of my drum tenderly. I need an entire symphony for this composition of me which is only sometimes contained by notes. There are (will be) long silent pauses and times when only a single note is sustained by a lonely cellist. The audience (of course there would be an audience!) claps, riotously, my witnesses, inner angels and demons who stir, snore and do not turn off ringing cell phones.
Who, I wonder, conducts, writes the script, makes sure the musicians are well-fed? Is this symphony that is me burdened by fund raising, philanthropic events, high-minded charitable giving? At times, perhaps, this was the case.
But more often than not, and these days especially, there is no symphony space, no instruments or chairs for the musicians, no conductor. Where before they sat in black, my musicians now run wild on the cliffs that fall off sharply towards the sea. In this composting that is me, the music, for there is still music, is composed in wind, crashing waves, thunder storms, and laughing.
Who, I wonder, conducts, writes the script, makes sure the musicians are well-fed? Is this symphony that is me burdened by fund raising, philanthropic events, high-minded charitable giving? At times, perhaps, this was the case.
But more often than not, and these days especially, there is no symphony space, no instruments or chairs for the musicians, no conductor. Where before they sat in black, my musicians now run wild on the cliffs that fall off sharply towards the sea. In this composting that is me, the music, for there is still music, is composed in wind, crashing waves, thunder storms, and laughing.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Grandmother Scrubs the Back Steps
My grandmother washed the back steps on her knees with a scrub brush, hard soap, and a plastic dishpan of dirty water. She would start at the bottom of those curving back steps and work her way up to the kitchen. As I played in the downstairs kitchen, I could hear the scrub of the brush on the old linoleum that looked the same to me before and after she had cleaned.
She wore a light cotton house dress when she cleaned, no girdle underneath, and house slippers with inch high heels. If she wore knee high nylon stockings, which was her habit, I would not see the blue veins in her calves and around her knees. Her knees ached, I could tell, because it took effort and groans to push up from bent knees that rested two steps below the step that was getting scrubbed.
I could dance around her up to the kitchen even when she was scrubbing the steps but everyone else had to, “Stay off the steps while I’m cleaning!” Her dedication to clean steps, steps that surely would be dirtied an hour after they were cleaned, amazed me. Such attention to those lowly back steps surely indicated how much we were loved.
After, grandmother would rest just like God did on the seventh day, with a coffee and a cigarette at the kitchen table. In her resting, I learned myself how to rest, to take a break from work, to pause before moving onto the next blessed task.
She wore a light cotton house dress when she cleaned, no girdle underneath, and house slippers with inch high heels. If she wore knee high nylon stockings, which was her habit, I would not see the blue veins in her calves and around her knees. Her knees ached, I could tell, because it took effort and groans to push up from bent knees that rested two steps below the step that was getting scrubbed.
I could dance around her up to the kitchen even when she was scrubbing the steps but everyone else had to, “Stay off the steps while I’m cleaning!” Her dedication to clean steps, steps that surely would be dirtied an hour after they were cleaned, amazed me. Such attention to those lowly back steps surely indicated how much we were loved.
After, grandmother would rest just like God did on the seventh day, with a coffee and a cigarette at the kitchen table. In her resting, I learned myself how to rest, to take a break from work, to pause before moving onto the next blessed task.
Can't ride your back unless it is bent
If I had sneezed, I wouldn’t have been around here in 1962, when Negroes in Albany, Georgia decided to straighten their backs up. And whenever men and women straighten their backs up, they are going somewhere, because a man can’t ride your back unless it is bent. Martin Luther King, Jr, spoken April 3, 1968 the night before his assassination.
Is your spine straight or bent today? Do you walk upright, chest rising to the sky, head held high upon a strong neck, thoracic vertebrae snug in between the shoulder blades? Or is there a monkey on your bent back, making you scratch and itch, pulling you down towards the ground, enveloping you in fear, worry, and rigidity?
Think of those men and women in Albany, Georgia, 1962, standing up straight, walking forward into the water hoses, the dogs, the paddy wagons, claiming their rightful free place in this world even as they were surrounded by hatred. Martin Luther King, Jr. preached love and was murdered. How/where did he find compassion, fearlessness, unselfish determination? In a straight spine, perhaps, that no man could ride.
Is your spine straight or bent today? Do you walk upright, chest rising to the sky, head held high upon a strong neck, thoracic vertebrae snug in between the shoulder blades? Or is there a monkey on your bent back, making you scratch and itch, pulling you down towards the ground, enveloping you in fear, worry, and rigidity?
Think of those men and women in Albany, Georgia, 1962, standing up straight, walking forward into the water hoses, the dogs, the paddy wagons, claiming their rightful free place in this world even as they were surrounded by hatred. Martin Luther King, Jr. preached love and was murdered. How/where did he find compassion, fearlessness, unselfish determination? In a straight spine, perhaps, that no man could ride.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
One Step Further
If there is an end, then there is no God. Creation by God never ends, so creation of your movements never ceases. The moment you say, "I have got it," you have lost everything you had. As soon as something comes, you have to go one step further. BKS Iyengar
R said goodbye to her father yesterday in a church in S that stank of incense. I was feeling nauseous and the incense just made things worse. The priest was so old; are there any young priests anymore? Death, we were told, is not to be mourned but celebrated because the dead while gone from us rest now with God.
But death and funerals do make me sad, mourn, and grieve. I thought of my father, gone now almost two years, and missed him terribly especially his hands and his face which I will never see again. Driving successfully to S through the mangle of streets that is Cambridge and Boston, I was reminded of how my father taught me to drive, offensively, on those mean streets, to get around when the getting around isn't easy, to take things into my own hands, to go in the direction I have set my mind towards even though I have never been there before. Not enough fathers teach such things to daughters, the right to an assertiveness that isn't always pretty but gets things done.
I thought I had "gotten it" this thing of grief, of loss, of letting go. But in that smoke filled church was reminded that this is not so. There is no end to letting go, no getting the hang of it, of knowing how to make it easier and less painful. Perhaps the dead rest with God, but for the living, I think, that old priest missed something of beauty when he told us not to mourn. For the living, God exists precisely in the sorrow, the darkness, the places that are not known, not fully explored, that remain, waiting for us, one step further beyond the light.
R said goodbye to her father yesterday in a church in S that stank of incense. I was feeling nauseous and the incense just made things worse. The priest was so old; are there any young priests anymore? Death, we were told, is not to be mourned but celebrated because the dead while gone from us rest now with God.
But death and funerals do make me sad, mourn, and grieve. I thought of my father, gone now almost two years, and missed him terribly especially his hands and his face which I will never see again. Driving successfully to S through the mangle of streets that is Cambridge and Boston, I was reminded of how my father taught me to drive, offensively, on those mean streets, to get around when the getting around isn't easy, to take things into my own hands, to go in the direction I have set my mind towards even though I have never been there before. Not enough fathers teach such things to daughters, the right to an assertiveness that isn't always pretty but gets things done.
I thought I had "gotten it" this thing of grief, of loss, of letting go. But in that smoke filled church was reminded that this is not so. There is no end to letting go, no getting the hang of it, of knowing how to make it easier and less painful. Perhaps the dead rest with God, but for the living, I think, that old priest missed something of beauty when he told us not to mourn. For the living, God exists precisely in the sorrow, the darkness, the places that are not known, not fully explored, that remain, waiting for us, one step further beyond the light.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Perfection
"The instinct that draw us toward the dream of perfection is really a desire for God." BKS Iyengar, Light on Life
Yoga practice asks us to care for that stiff back, the ache in the hip, the broken heart, with all the love and compassion we effortless give to a suffering child. 'Do not bother about failures in this endeavor," we are admonished by the sages. Try for just a little progress to perfection (to God, Enlightenment, non-judgment, compassion, humility) each day. That is all that we need do.
Ten minutes of Asana practice each day is better than one hour done in one day at the end of a week. For ten minutes a day, the mind is given a chance to stop giving directions, worrying about the future, fretting about what was lacking for breakfast. Most profoundly, the mind is given a chance to be a student of the body rather than the other way around. A devoted and attentive stretch to the hamstring, letting the brain be 'in' that hamstring, acts like a cooling balm for an overheated mind. The mind is given a chance to pause, absorb wisdom from the body, the heart, and the breath.
The desire for perfection can stop us in our tracks towards the mat with excuses like, "It is not worth it to get out of this cold bed, I don't do the poses right anyway," or "This will be too painful," or "I'll start tomorrow when I feel more energy." Should I give you a list of how many things I haven't done because I thought I was not good enough to do them, wasn't getting anywhere fast? That list would be long and boring. Better to know that I now get up early every morning for Asana practice over the roaring of the crowd that laughs and chides me for getting out a warm bed, for entering a tight hamstring, for longing for God and perfection amidst my imperfections.
Yoga practice asks us to care for that stiff back, the ache in the hip, the broken heart, with all the love and compassion we effortless give to a suffering child. 'Do not bother about failures in this endeavor," we are admonished by the sages. Try for just a little progress to perfection (to God, Enlightenment, non-judgment, compassion, humility) each day. That is all that we need do.
Ten minutes of Asana practice each day is better than one hour done in one day at the end of a week. For ten minutes a day, the mind is given a chance to stop giving directions, worrying about the future, fretting about what was lacking for breakfast. Most profoundly, the mind is given a chance to be a student of the body rather than the other way around. A devoted and attentive stretch to the hamstring, letting the brain be 'in' that hamstring, acts like a cooling balm for an overheated mind. The mind is given a chance to pause, absorb wisdom from the body, the heart, and the breath.
The desire for perfection can stop us in our tracks towards the mat with excuses like, "It is not worth it to get out of this cold bed, I don't do the poses right anyway," or "This will be too painful," or "I'll start tomorrow when I feel more energy." Should I give you a list of how many things I haven't done because I thought I was not good enough to do them, wasn't getting anywhere fast? That list would be long and boring. Better to know that I now get up early every morning for Asana practice over the roaring of the crowd that laughs and chides me for getting out a warm bed, for entering a tight hamstring, for longing for God and perfection amidst my imperfections.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Freedom Through Pain
In yoga, as in life, I am learning that pain cannot be avoided. Nor should it be.
In yoga, as in life, the way to grow is through pain. Where there is dullness, numbness, long held friction, movement will inevitably cause pain. This, afterall, is how new life, birth, is experienced. Sometimes sharp, others times throbbing, this discomfort that I initially retract from calls to me from parts of myself I did not know existed, "I am here!! Look how infinitly spacious, how deep, how penetrating."
Still, this is a treacherous journey from death through pain to life and, ultimately, freedom (if a spine that bends backwards is not the essence of freedom than I do not know what is.) I lack the courage for this journey. That is why I cherish my teachers who show me the way with patience, simplicity, and just enough sternness to bring me further. I depend on my sanga, the community of yoga students, whose striving is so beautiful, energizing, and supporting to me.
I am learning how to comfort my small self who wants no part in pain, who sees pain as defeat, incompetence, illness, incompleteness with my wiser self who sees how pain changes in the pauses, can be warm or cold, has soft contours that melt and release, who realizes that there is growth, fertility, and mystery in the pain.
As the stiffness in my hips and shoulders release, my muscles grow strong, my devotion to practice steadied, I gain release, devotion, steadiness in the rest of my life, off of the mat. Obstacles, pain, calamity, things not turning out how I planned, I see, are blessings like the aches in the neck and buttocks, showing me where there is dullness, fear, death waiting for a resurrecting breath.
In yoga, as in life, the way to grow is through pain. Where there is dullness, numbness, long held friction, movement will inevitably cause pain. This, afterall, is how new life, birth, is experienced. Sometimes sharp, others times throbbing, this discomfort that I initially retract from calls to me from parts of myself I did not know existed, "I am here!! Look how infinitly spacious, how deep, how penetrating."
Still, this is a treacherous journey from death through pain to life and, ultimately, freedom (if a spine that bends backwards is not the essence of freedom than I do not know what is.) I lack the courage for this journey. That is why I cherish my teachers who show me the way with patience, simplicity, and just enough sternness to bring me further. I depend on my sanga, the community of yoga students, whose striving is so beautiful, energizing, and supporting to me.
I am learning how to comfort my small self who wants no part in pain, who sees pain as defeat, incompetence, illness, incompleteness with my wiser self who sees how pain changes in the pauses, can be warm or cold, has soft contours that melt and release, who realizes that there is growth, fertility, and mystery in the pain.
As the stiffness in my hips and shoulders release, my muscles grow strong, my devotion to practice steadied, I gain release, devotion, steadiness in the rest of my life, off of the mat. Obstacles, pain, calamity, things not turning out how I planned, I see, are blessings like the aches in the neck and buttocks, showing me where there is dullness, fear, death waiting for a resurrecting breath.
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