attitude


Last summer, my friend Siobhan performed a compelling solo dance for her “project” at an Iyengar yoga teacher training in Victoria, BC. All participants had to express parinama (transformation), samskaras (imprints), gunas (three qualities of nature), and heyam dukham anagatam (Google it), through any creative medium. Naturally, people chose familiar modes of expression: An art teacher made striking mixed-media pictures. Some cut up magazines to make collages. A few read aloud deeply personal essays.

Only Siobhan danced. That’s probably because she’s a talented, trained, professional dancer. Who else would dare perform a solo dance in public?

That very week, I received a video of my little niece dancing to entertain herself at a San Francisco museum (she was probably bored and squirmy). Like Siobhan, she did an improvisational dance. Unlike Siobhan, she is not a professional dancer. At what age do we distinguish between what we do and what we simply do not do?

Maybe it happens early. By elementary school, even kids prefer to do what comes naturally, what they’re “good at.” That’s why I like to see folks step out of character and do the unexpected. I like to see middle-aged people change careers or seniors try yoga for the first time. I like to see non-professionals entering realms typically reserved for professionals. YouTube has been a great equalizer (for better or worse). Take this 2008 video, Where the Hell is Matt?, that went viral. It features the funny dance of an ordinary guy “dancing” around the world and it never fails to cheer me up.

*“Come Dancing,” The Kinks, 1982

Come dancing
Come on sister, have yourself a ball
Don’t be afraid to come dancing
It’s only natural


	
	

Last week, I was striding through City Square Shopping Centre near Vancouver City Hall after a dental appointment. The centre’s airy heritage architecture can’t quite compensate for the mundane mall experience, so I had no reason to stick around. In passing, I noticed the abandoned Hello Kitty kiosk. “What happened to them?” I asked a neighboring vendor.

A Chinese immigrant in her 50s or 60s, she gabbed about their move to a larger mall with more shoppers willing to shell out for genuine Sanrio merchandise. “Are you Japanese or Korean?” she interjected. Before I knew it, she clasped my right hand and began buffing my thumb nail. Her kiosk sold cosmetic products by Seacret, an Israeli company unfamiliar to me.

“Look at that,” she marveled, smoothing the ridges and then rubbing my nail to a gleaming finish. “It last for two weeks. All natural. No need polish.”

She proceeded to rub cuticle oil around my nail. “You take care of your hair, your face, but why not your hands? So dry.” Then she held a boxed nail kit. “Online, $59.95. Today special $39.95. Only today.”

Me? Buy a kiosk nail set? “I’ll think about it,” I said, all set to escape.

She persisted, buffing my other thumb, commiserating over the hand-wrecking “women’s” tasks of cooking and cleaning. “For you,” she said, “I’ll give the senior special: $29.95, even if you’re not senior. Treat yourself.”

When I demurred, she pulled the two demonstrated products from the box: “Buffer and oil, $20.” I did the unthinkable and bought it.

As a rule, I reject pushy salespeople and unknown brands. This was As Seen On TV up close and personal. But the Seacret saleslady somehow amused me with her chatty familiarity and never-say-die tenacity. She reminded me of three things:

  • Don’t give up The Seacret saleslady would not accept my “no.” And she had nothing to lose in pursuing me until my “no” was final. Do I persist that hard in the face of likely rejection or imminent defeat? Do I put myself on the line day after day? I can admire such doggedness.
  • Synchronicity That very week, I’d already been contemplating my chronic hangnails, due to frequent hand washing and the natural dryness associated with vata dosha. Having a total stranger offer a solution was a neat coincidence (nevermind that she probably accosts anyone who makes eye contact). I figured that Seacret’s buffer and oil were no better than drugstore brands, but I could live with the price (and, hey, I crossed something off the to-do list).
  • Helping one another We’re all trying to make a living, whether as lawyers or yoga teachers or Seacret salesladies. Who knows: Maybe she can’t stand kissing up to strangers for a $20 sale. But it’s her job and she’s definitely not lazy. Twenty dollars wouldn’t break me and we both took something home from that encounter.

Acknowledgment: I discovered the idea of synchronicity through Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way.

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Whenever I visit my little niece, I end up reading children’s stories that delight me as much as they do her. My favorite of the moment is The Fire Cat by Esther Averill. It’s a 1960 classic, with drawings that capture the essence of Pickles, a stray kitty with big paws and big dreams.

In the three-part story, Pickles faces the universal challenges of life:

  • Search for one’s purpose.
  • Adrift in the wrong environment.
  • Choosing purpose over privilege.
  • Being both good and bad.
  • Being paralyzed by fear.
  • Getting into a fine mess.
  • Getting a second chance.
  • Working hard to improve oneself.
  • Turning over a new leaf.
  • Making friends with others of your own species.
  • Facing the truth about one’s past.
  • Overcoming one’s fear.
  • Helping another in trouble.
  • Fulfilling one’s purpose in life.
Yes. All that shines through in this slim paperback. Read it.

I stumbled upon this YouTube video, “Don’t Take Anything Personally,” through elephant journal. It’s unbearably New Age-y and self help-y, yet strangely compelling. It highlights one chapter of a book, The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz, that keeps popping into my life.

I’ve never owned or even read the book, but last year it caught my eye near the yoga section at the wonderful Green Apple Books in San Francisco. Reading the title, I suddenly recalled someone (a guy sitting next to me on a plane?) highly recommending it ages ago.

I skimmed the entire book, short and sweet, with just four main points. While it struck me as rather simplistic, I could relate to each of the “agreements.”

Here’s what’s written on the cover:

  • Be Impeccable With Your Word: Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your word in the direction of truth and love.
  • Don’t Take Anything Personally: Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.
  • Don’t Make Assumptions: Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness, and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.
  • Always Do Your Best: Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.

The YouTube video covers the second agreement, which might be my biggest challenge among the four. Maybe Don Miguel Ruiz is popping up for good reason!

The classic Iyengar method of teaching asana is what I’ll call the “demo” method:  teacher demonstrates and then students do. This contrasts with the common “follow the leader” method, in which teachers do practically the whole sequence along with students.

So, many students who attend my classes aren’t used to the “demo” method. Often, they’re hesitant to venture too far from their mats, unlike longtime Iyengar students who want ringside seats for demos. Sometimes, I demonstrate a forward bend with my head facing downward only to find students already doing the pose when I rise. Waitaminute, folks! I want to watch students enter the pose. If I’m doing the pose, I’m not watching them. And isn’t my job? To watch my students?

If they’re used to constant activity, however, some tend to be impatient. While I’m demonstrating, they can’t help but to ready their stance or to arrange their props. The instant they recognize the pose I’m teaching, their minds jump to expectations. I know this pose. I don’t need to watch. Let me do it.

This amuses me. Where are their minds during class?

I, for one, never tire of watching my own teachers demonstrate. I love to watch the details, from the spreading of the toes to the symmetry of a backbend. Once, my current main teacher told me that watching her own teachers was invaluable to her practice. It was only through visual observation that she learned to do the most-challenging asanas.

Close observation of teachers’ demos or words doesn’t mean agreeing with them. Heck, I’ve attended classes where I learned how not to do a pose! All classes are not created equal. Regardless, you’re physically there in class; you might as well be mentally there, too.

The yoga mind. If the whole point of yoga, including asana, is really to develop the mind, who has a better practice: The adept student who relies on ease and habit? Or the inept novice who pays close attention?

Image: Cliff & Olivia

On November 19, 2010,  there was a car crash in Kona involving 27-year-old former University of Hawai’i star quarterback Colt Brennan. He was a passenger in an SUV driven by his girlfriend, Shakti Stream, also 27, who crossed the center line on the Queen Ka’ahumanu Highway and hit an oncoming car head on. Stream’s injuries were minor; Brennan’s were more serious but not life-threatening. But the innocent victim, 47-year-old Dr Theresa Wang, ended up in a coma.

That happened during my Lonely Planet Big Island trip, so I watched the local news fixate on this story due to Brennan’s football fame. Nevermind that the Hawai’i Warriors were trashed by the Georgia Bulldogs in the 2007 BCS Sugar Bowl, or that Brennan probably won’t make it in the NFL. He was a local hero and will always be.

Recently I stumbled upon the We Love Hula Terri blog by Wang’s husband, David Chen. Both immigrated to Alberta, Canada, and then became US citizens before moving to Hawai’i in 2006. She is a physician; he is Director of Finance at the lush Mauna Lani Bay Hotel. I read his January 5, 2011, post, describing the couple’s move to Colorado for specialized spinal-cord-injury rehab, and skimmed his prolific blog archives. One post featured this Honolulu Star Advertiser article that captured Chen’s attitude toward Stream.

He struck me as a forgiving, compassionate, optimistic person with a resilient sense of humor. He is a devout Christian, which I admit typically gives me pause, but here his faith is obviously his source of strength.

Chen’s attitude reminded me of the yogic teachings beyond asana—and the way we can rise above the average person’s mindset. Could I be civil (let alone nice) to someone who caused unthinkable harm to my loved one for no good reason?  Could I blog so openly about a crisis so great? Could I be as “big” a person as he is?

I had high hopes to continue blogging during my Hawaii trip. Dream on. Lonely Planet assignments swallow me whole and, when I’m in Hilo, spending time with my parents is also top priority.

In my Hawaii life (a parallel universe to my other life in Canada), sitting for hours at a computer seems incongruous. Even my sacrosanct asana practice has shrunk to a minimum, making way for people and places rarely seen.

My blog readership is surely dwindling. Posts are the lifeblood of blogs, and I’ve ceased posting, despite a myriad of free-floating ideas.

Can resurrect my blog by flooding it with posts in December or in the New Year? I’m reminded of my tabletop basil plant, which droops when I forget to water it. I guiltily soak the soil and, within an hour, it’s perky and rehydrated. Can my blog similarly come back to life?

My mom’s cactus

When she was a little girl, my mom got a cactus smaller than her fist. Over the decades, it grew into this specimen, almost a foot tall! Underneath its inch-long thorns, the cactus was unmistakably green and monstrously healthy.

About two years ago, the cactus resembled a wizened oldster. Its smooth green skin was rough and brown; its spiky top was a bald patch. Its decline disturbed me; I associated the cactus’ vitality with my mom’s.

When I returned home this year, I wandered into the backyard. “Where’s Mom’s cactus?” I asked.

“Look for it,” my mom said. “You’re going to be surprised!”

They had moved the cactus from its prior spot; my mom, ever maternal, thought it posed a danger to kids (or clumsy adults). I spied it under the overhang of an orchid hothouse.

“Oh!” I laughed. “When did this happen?” It had grown another part on top. It was thriving, not in its old way, but in a new way.

In its new location, the cactus was half covered, half exposed, to Hilo rain (a prodigious 100+ annual inches). “Shouldn’t it be under cover?” I asked. “A cactus shouldn’t get too much water, right?”

“Look how happy it is!” my mom said. My parents are the ones with green thumbs, so who am I to question their plant care? The cactus did look happy. Buoyantly so. And it gave me hope.

Growing up in Hilo, Hawaii, I lived five minutes by car from Rainbow Falls (look closely and you’ll see why it earns its moniker). My parents would drive us there when off-island relatives came over—or when rainstorms produced a massive wall of crashing water. Both my mom and my dad were attuned to nature: they would notice when Mauna Kea was snowcapped, when cloud cover signaled rain, when the falls were a trickle or a deluge. But I was blithe. As a young adult, months, perhaps years, might pass between visits. I took Rainbow Falls for granted.

When I became a travel writer with Hawaii as my beat, I saw my home island objectively for the first time. I finally appreciated not only its obvious natural beauty but also its local culture and unpretentious people. It took distance—in space, in time—for me to see Hawaii clearly. Now I’m grateful for being born and raised here.

Today, I live in Vancouver. Do I see my current hometown clearly? Do I take it for granted? Have I learned from my mistakes?

This is my food for thought on Thanksgiving.

A few days after I drafted my prior post on musical accompaniment to asana, I read a fascinating New York Times article, “How to Push Past the Pain, as the Champions Do” (October 18, 2010). In assessing how elite athletes edge out their competitors, despite equivalent “pain,” experts made two points. First, it helps to be familiar with the conditions (such as the race course), for optimal pacing. Second, it helps to “associate,” to concentrate on your sport and the task at hand.

Regarding the second point, John S. Raglin, a sports psychologist at Indiana University, says that less accomplished athletes tend to dissociate, to distract themselves:

“Sometimes dissociation allows runners to speed up, because they are not attending to their pain and effort,” he said. “But what often happens is they hit a sort of physiological wall that forces them to slow down, so they end up racing inefficiently in a sort of oscillating pace.” But association, Dr. Raglin says, is difficult, which may be why most don’t do it.

Association, not dissociation, works

Maybe I see yoga connections everywhere, but I found this point applicable to the music question. Asana is not an athletic competition, but yoga practitioners all face physical and mental strain in challenging poses (see “Holding the plank” for one example). Do you use music (or other forms of dissociation) to push through? Or do you focus on your muscles and bones, your form and alignment, your breath and mind?

Image: lifeofMimi.com, Mimi daydreaming of cloud carrots

On a brilliant fall day in Vancouver, I watched Sly the Cat bask in the sun or, rather, a spot of sun streaming through a window. Lying there, soft and toasty, he was utterly content. Life couldn’t be more perfect!

A while later, I noticed that the sunny spot had moved two feet away, but Sly was still smack in its center. Even a house cat must “work”: to adapt to change. A perfect situation is never permanent. If he had stuck to his original sunny spot, he would’ve found himself huddled in the shade. While the sun eventually finds most chilly dark corners, it pays to chase it yourself!

Sly and his sunny spot made me think about the human condition. While a cat’s pursuit of happiness might involve sunshine, companionable humans, and dabs of Petromalt, we are likewise driven to be happy. But, even if we do find a moment (a day, a month, a decade) of real joy, it cannot last forever. On the bright side, if things are bleak, they won’t remain that way: either circumstances change or we cope.

Of course, the real trick is not to be swayed by sun or shade or any external circumstance. If you’re essentially OK with yourself and with life (this includes death), nothing can faze you.

Today is Canadian Thanksgiving Day, which always sneaks up on me. (Thanksgiving in October? On a Monday?) I’m not a big holiday celebrator, but this might be an auspicious day to review the year 2010, already three-quarters gone. Am I in a sunny spot? Are you?

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.

“I don’t much care where—” said Alice

“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.

“—so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation.

“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”

—Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Consider the conversation between Alice and the Cheshire Cat. Is it best to know where we want to go? Or only to want to go? Or simply to go?

My knee-jerk reaction, based on the Cat’s mocking pronouncements and my own personality, is to assume that one should have a plan. Meandering aimlessly is for lost souls and losers, right?

Well, I myself can argue otherwise with a literal example: travel. I write travel books on Hawai‘i, and people often ask me where to go, what to see, which accommodations are best. While I have no shortage of suggestions, I’m often stumped because I don’t know a person’s particular preferences.

Ultimately, you must know yourself well to travel well: to choose a destination (and purpose and pace) that reflects what you enjoy rather than what’s trendy. People with keen interests (whether hiking or yoga, botany or the arts) are wise to plan ahead, to ensure the right equipment, workshop space, or tickets to a show. Yet, over-planning is not the answer. Who knows what you’ll discover along the way? Why be tethered to a plan if it proves misguided on the road?

In yoga, we eventually know (or should know) the basics of alignment and form and quieting the mind—and which type of practice suits us. But beyond that, do we really know where we’re going with yoga? At that level, we’re mostly just walking along, trying to keep a steady pace, hoping to reach a good place. Likewise, in the big scheme of life, it’s also a balancing act between foresight and freedom, knowing and not knowing.

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Sometimes, my words as a yoga teacher have a life of their own. Recently I was pleased to receive this email message from a student:

“You had advised us during the last class of the summer session to pick three poses, do them every day, and see what happens. I picked plank, warrior 1, and dandasana against a wall (the one where you lift your arms up and try to touch your thumbs to the wall).

This morning my son got me to try upward bow pose, the one where you had to spot us with straps and I couldn’t get even one millimetre off the ground by myself.

I got up! Not all the way to straight arms, but still! I guess my upper back is a lot more open.”

She happens to be a linguistics professor and might be especially conscious about language, but she later commented that my three words—see what happens—made her do it. Otherwise I would’ve been just another Goody Two-shoes telling others to exercise it’s “good for you.” “But to see what happens?” she said. “There’s a hook!”

Truth be told, I only vaguely remember saying those exact words. (I carefully plan my class sequences (or themes), but my words are spontaneous.) In the back of my mind, I hoped to teach students the following:

  • To adopt a doable daily home practice.
  • To aim for regularity rather than quick results (but to realize that results are possible with regularity).
  • To absorb the Japanese concept of kaizen, slow and steady improvement, which I contemplate in past posts “One day at a time,” and “On home practice and eating salad.”

I ultimately told them simply to see what happens. For one student, it worked.

Image: YogaTeds

In her email newsletter, Kailua-Kona yoga teacher Barbara Uechi mentioned a video, Old Man Dances to Lady Gaga, posted on Today’s BIG Thing. I couldn’t resist checking it out.

I admit that I’m a sucker for uplifting Joe Shmoe performances. But why exactly did it make the cut? Why is it a “big thing” to see a silvery senior go all out dancing to “Poker Face”?

We expect men his age not to dance, certainly not to Lady Gaga. (If he’d performed a smooth ballroom number, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.) We expect people to behave in conventional ways, in childhood and college, in middle age and beyond. That’s why we marvel at kids who are prodigies or simply precocious. At those who return to school or leave secure careers in middle age. At seniors who run marathons, wear cool jeans, keep up with new music and high tech, or simply dance. At the unexpected.

Yesterday at the university gym where I work out, I initially didn’t recognize the student staffer at the front desk. But as I pedaled up a sweat, I realized that he resembled someone I hadn’t seen since winter. That guy was much beefier (the overstuffed look of a misguided male trying to “get huge”), with cropped hair rather than this guy’s Brady Bunch curls. A brother, perhaps?

Turns out, he was the same guy. It was his senior year and he’d been cutting his hours to focus on school. During that time he also lost 43 pounds.

“I barely recognized you!” I said. “You look great. What made you change your whole workout and lose that weight?”

“I was 243 pounds,” he said. “I just wasn’t feeling good. I’d get out of breath and everything. Just wanted to get in shape.”

Quite an impressive physical transformation: Losing 43 pounds in less than six months. Growing the hair into a curly mop. Creating a new look that could fool even spies like me.

Transformation and yoga

I was intrigued by this 22-year-old’s turnaround, perhaps because I’m fascinated by all human transformation. When I see it happen, it inspires me. Whether physical, emotional, or intellectual, change is hard.

Change seems especially difficult for adults. A baby morphs from month to month, week to week, even day to day. Growth is inherent in babyhood. Just by being alive, they grow. Adults need to make it happen.

Once, when my Iyengar yoga teacher held us in a challenging pose, a classmate broke the tension with a joking complaint. My teacher responded good-humoredly, and then added, “Yoga is about transformation. And you don’t expect transformation to come easily, do you?”

I often think about her words. I’ve never minded that yoga is challenging. In Iyengar yoga, I can’t get away with sloppiness anywhere. But these very challenges seem necessary for any breakthroughs. While “anything goes” yoga might offer solace for a moment, it is probably less likely to spur real transformation, which seems to need that classic arc: effort, achievement, rest.

Our physical improvement though asana is probably obvious to us all. Barring injury, we can do poses better today than on day one. But I wonder if changes in my body are spurring mental maturity. That is my challenge. I don’t need to lose weight or grow my hair or do crazy arm balances. But I do need to outgrow a mental “bad habit” or two. How can my asana practice spur that change?

Image: Butterfly farm, Costa Rica, 2003

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers recently played in Vancouver. The local weekly, The Georgia Straight, reviewed his concert rather negatively because he apparently played too many new songs (off his latest album) and not enough familiar hit oldies.

The following week, a letter to the editor echoed this complaint, writing, “Could rock promoters adopt some kind of mercy rule to the effect that old rockers can’t play more than three songs in a  row from their new album?”

On one hand, I totally empathize. We all want to hear our favorite groups play their old hits: Songs to which you can sing or hum along. Songs that made a difference in your life.

On the other, I respect groups that don’t rest on their past hits and instead keep generating new stuff. I feel the same way about novelists who keep writing (long after critical acclaim) and professors who keep researching and publishing (long after tenure). Why should one go soft after success?

Refining versus reinventing: What’s your teaching style?

The Tom Petty complaints made me consider yoga teaching:

My teacher once mentioned that some teachers find an effective way to teach an asana and stick with it throughout their careers. Others are always experimenting; despite the classic “rules” in the Iyengar system, there are many ways to teach the same pose. Neither style is better or worse, she said; it depends on the teacher’s personality.

Creative types might get bored with teaching the same sequence year and year. By trying new sequences, they keep themselves fresh and engaged, avoiding rote teaching. That said, if one finds a great way to prep a challenging backbend, why abandon it merely to avoid repetition? One can refine, rather than reject, a particular sequence. After all, aren’t we still following Mr Iyengar’s longstanding instructions in Light on Yoga?

Perhaps teaching yoga by traditional, established methods (which are not static either, of course) is akin to cooking by classic culinary methods. It takes one type of talent to evolve and innovate—and another to master and refine the basics. While all teachers do both, most gravitate in either direction.

Perhaps the main thing is not to get stuck in a rut. It’s a copout to stick with tried-and-true methods, blithely repeating songs, recipes, or asana sequences to avoid real thinking.

Image: Wikipedia, Tom Petty

I read with dismay “Tuna’s End,” The New York Times Magazine, June 21, 2010, by Paul Greenberg. It is tragic that the world’s stock of bluefin tuna is approaching extinction. And it is appalling to see Japan actively promoting bluefin fishing (and the Japanese blithely savoring their toro sashimi). Sure, eating toro might be integral to Japanese culture, but cultural practices do not trump our universal human responsibilities. (And I’m Japanese.)

Reading the article (and the comments), I contemplated my decision last December to stop eating fish. In the past six months of vegetarianism, I’ve rarely, if ever, craved fish (despite my tasty memories of fleshy salmon, nostalgic tuna sandwiches, and velvety smooth sashimi).

My mind can appreciate eating fish while also knowing that it was off the table now. It’s as if a light was turned off (or on).

I recalled one of my earliest posts, “Planting the seed of an idea,” which discusses the way we set (and change) our beliefs. Once an idea takes root, I wrote, it colors our thought process and spurs us to make the right decision. By “right,” I mean appropriate for ourselves at a given time in our lives. Here, it was remarkably easy to stop eating fish.

Reading the Times Magazine article further convinced me of my decision. The only compelling reason to change my mind is inadequate protein from soy, dairy, and eggs (my current sources). Since January or February, I’ve faced a lingering injury or two; nothing major but I want 100%. I’m wondering if my body “needs” fish (we Japanese are a fish-and-rice-eating people, after all). If I eat fish again, I’d choose small fry that aren’t endangered. But I’ll stick with vegetarianism for a while longer. And you?

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Image: The New York Times

I recently took a yoga class with Yves Oberlin, an Austin-based Iyengar teacher who was subbing for my teacher Louie Ettling. He gave us a relatively generous eight-minute savasana, first instructing to find the pose in our bodies, tucking our shoulders under and so forth. Then he said, “After a while, don’t move. Don’t keep adjusting and re-adjusting. Just accept that this is the way things are.” (Something to that effect.)

Who knows about my classmates’ reactions, but that struck me as a profound statement. Sure, he was referring to an asana, but I projected it to life itself.

Don’t we all eventually (and sooner rather than later) need to accept the realities and live with them? To stop questioning, seeking, trying to change what might very well be “it”: who we are and the lives we’ve created for ourselves.

In savasana, how bad can it be anyway? Might as well stop fidgeting and appreciate the remaining moments of stillness. In life, things can be bad. But (as I’m frequently reminded by a guy who knows me very well) not for someone like me. Really, my “acceptance” should be “appreciation.”

But, for us chronic malcontents, to stop fidgeting is a tall order.

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Image: “Find Serenity in Savasana,” Judith Hanson Lasater, Yoga Journal

Growing up in Hawaii, all of us girls took hula lessons. But none of us considered ourselves “real” hula dancers. The serious dancers joined hula halau (schools), led by revered kumu hulu (hula teachers). And the top dancers view hula not as hobby but as lifestyle.

Recently, I read “Aloha, Uncle” in the current issue of Hana Hou! and was struck by the parallels between yoga and hula. Not in the details, but in the attitude.

The article honors the late George Na‘ope, a revered kumu hula who died last October at age 81. Etua Lopes, one of his students and a kumu hula himself, recalls him vividly:

He used to say that the hula is actually a spirit. You noho and ground yourself and everything flows in you. To noho means to sit or dwell, to come to your na‘au (core) and connect. He taught us this. He would never stand in front and dance throughout the whole class. Instead he would show you the motion, and then you would find it and dance. He would explain, ‘I don’t want you to look like me; I want you to look like you!’

Hmm, I could’ve been reading about yoga.

Then he described Na‘ope’s classes: “[H]e would take me apart joint by joint. But then he would put me back together.” None of the students complained when they practiced for hours at a time. Doesn’t this, too, sound like the tough love of the best yoga teachers?

Like yoga, hula has become commercialized and trivialized. Yoga nowadays means exercise, while hula is touristy entertainment. Both are associated with youth and sexiness, when they are really philosophies.

Lopes’s last quote again could’ve been made by a yoga practitioner:

Uncle taught me that the hula makes you want to learn about you. And he taught me the morals you live by as a hula dancer: to lökahi, to unite; to ha‘a, to humble yourself in dance; to ahunui, to be patient with yourself and with others. So many words, I can go on and on.

Image: Hawaii magazine

My travel writer “hat”

In one of my other lives, I write travel books on Hawaii. Recently, Erin, a fellow travel writer, and I chatted about how much longer we could do it. Yes, we agreed, everyone glamorizes the adventures of a travel writer, but the reality is more mundane (and grueling). Research trips are not vacations, lemme tell you!

But, we agreed, we travel differently on assignment. It’s as if we’re wearing the travel writer “hat.” People approach us, willing to share their stories and secrets. Of course, people treat us differently because we act differently. We’re out and about; we’re typically solo; we’re all eyes and ears, open to random conversations, soaking up a place, its people and its culture, like a sponge. Perhaps we’re more outgoing and “out there” because we have a reason to be. Otherwise we’d probably behave more like typical people and mind our own business.

We relish the intensity of travel as travel writers. That, we agreed, is what we’d miss if we stop.

My yoga teacher “hat”

In response to my prior post, “Yoga Rx for my dad,” Dhana commented that her family doesn’t really seek her yoga advice. She assumed that mine did. But, despite my dad’s recent stick-to-it-ness with my yoga Rx for him, my family is similar to Dhana’s. I didn’t teach my dad as if I were teaching a class. We were just chatting and I took advantage of that half-hour: dad as captive audience.

Perhaps Dhana’s and my childhood families see us first as daughter and sister. Not as yoga teacher. It’s different with our students, who meet us mostly (maybe only) in yoga classes. Wearing the yoga teacher “hat,” we interact a certain way with people. They follow our instructions; they ask questions; they trust our judgment. And we try to help them train their bodies and minds in the span of an hour or two of class.

It is a focused dynamic, with great responsibility and great reward. If my travel writer “hat” intensifies my travel experience, my yoga teacher “hat” likewise deepens my yoga experience.

Maybe my dad is gradually adding “yoga teacher” to his definition of me, hence his receptivity. Whatever the reason, I’m glad. I figure he’ll be ready for a full-blown class (free private for Mom and Dad!) the next time I visit my hometown.

I stumbled on Nathan’s Dangerous Harvests blog again last night. While I’m not a regular reader, I did recognize his blog (the way we glimpse a stranger in a crowd and think, “I’ve seen that face before”). One of his April posts, “What feeds your spirit?” questioned how we fill our days (and our minds). What things brighten your mind? What things darken them? He shared his own list:

1. Gardening, even the “tedious” parts like weeding.

2. Researching and learning new things.

3. Breathing fresh air.

4. Conversation and time with loved ones.

5. Writing and art.

6. Hiking.

7. Bodies of water.

8. Watching squirrels, cats, and other “wild” animals.

9. Outdoor meditation

Many of Nathan’s listings resonate with me. But do I make time for them? If our doings today are our memories tomorrow, am I stockpiling a happy story or a bunch of regrets? As a long-ago law professor once quipped, “We’re always doing what’s urgent, rather than what’s important.”

What feeds your spirit? And are you starving or satisfying it?

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