A Centuries Old Practice

Driving down the dusty hills this morning, in the dark, preparing my mind to lead an early morning yoga class, the radio told me more than I wanted to know. The stock market fell 2000 points.  Immediately I switched the station, and my head, back to the present. I refuse to be drawn into the negative emotions of the money world, even as it is all too apparent that my IRA's will be of questionable worth, if and when I need them. My yoga practice is still worth millions though, and gaining each month. My practice is my health plan, my retirement happiness plan, my being a grama someday plan, and my staying creative and inspired plan.

One of my students today pointed out that yoga has survived worse historical times, in it's 5,500 years. It will prevail on, and those of us lucky enough to come together in the 6 am dark to share it are reaping the benefits.

What can we do when things look tough? Breath first, that is a natural place to begin.  Secondly, we can do our homework, what ever that is. Today my homework is writing, because I've been away from that part of my practice.

I just spent 3 days out on the North Santiam with a group event called "The Fishing Trip". We noted this year that it seems to be more about wine and food than fish. Of course most sport fisherman on the rivers now don't keep the fish, they throw them back to keep the populations growing. Grapes, however, are becoming plentiful, and wine is our consolation prize for being human.

The Fishing Trip consists of 50-75 people camping out in an old growth fir grove along Whitewater Creek. It has been happening for 44 years, always in early August.  The regulars work to create the campsite kitchen, showers, sanitary facilities, trails, bridges, food, firewood, and so many more things too numerous to list. Every year I am amazed, and every year I learn something about the power of human cooperation and altruism.  The camp goes up in a day or 2 and in 2 weeks it is gone, only the trees and the cold flowing snowmelt fed creek remain.

In camp, after a day of hiking, swimming, a group baseball game, even a golf tournament, folks sit about the fire in the evening. This, after some lovely healthy dinner, like stir fried veggies and salad, not many sugary or processed foods around camp.

We sing into the night, the same songs shared every year, and some new ones. The old and the young sing together. The trees I'm sure listen, I can feel them telling me they remember when my kids were little, and came here with their Uncle Tom to play with the other camp kids. Now all those children have graduated from college, and are part of the working world. The trees remember for me though. When I find my way back to the tent in the dark, I can feel the years, and the trees show the way.

1-11-11

1-11-11
A day of one’s, possibly a day of firsts then?

I Write from Patzcuaro, in the state of Michoacan, Mexico. Patzcuaro is a pueblo magica, a magic village about 5 hours drive on the toll highway west from Mexico City. The elevation is is above 7000 feet still, and the air is clear and dry.  My tortured sinuses are healing.  My white blood cells have been working hard against what they call ‘el grippe’ here, a cold.

When we arrived at the home of friend’s of Curtis’s, the first news was of the horror  in Tuscon, the very city where my new daughter-in-law attends law school. The irony that I was warned and suffered numerous furrowed brows when I told people that  we were going to Mexico for a month sits heavy with me today.
 “Oh, Mexico is so dangerous. “ they said.
The ‘news’ highlights certain things in certain ways. Here, I have less fear  that a deranged person with a fancy gun will open fire at random, out of shear anger. Forgive me, but America has a disproportionate number of angry people living within range of affluence. That combination seems at this point to be more volatile than a mafia and a whole bunch of poor people who share a similar cultural view, and spend most days just working very hard to survive.

This morning I attended Enrique’s yoga class, in the Hatha tradition. I was the only gringo, and so I was able to listen to what instructions in good Spanish sound like. It was a wonderful class, and I spoke afterwards with ‘Kike’ as he goes by. He is the same age as my Arlyn, another young yogi. I bow to you, hijo mio. What beautiful young people we have in the world.

As I lay in savasana tears came. Without a word, Enrique gave me a tissue. We spoke later of the phenomenon particluar to savasana, which we have both experienced ourselves, and witnessed as teachers. This gentle completion to the practice often brings us to our most tender core.  It felt wonderful to have a release, after the past weeks of intensive language study, sinus challenges, and great efforts at social correctness in unfamiliar surroundings.  My experience here is teaching me how to treat those who are visitors, especially from other cultures.  Listen, smile, laugh, and find the things you have in common… oh, and talk about your beloved children, parents and families, almost everyone is softened by the opportunity to speak of their own familiars. 

It is the luck of birth which allows me to be here, and still have a home and a life 2000 miles away as well. In my practice I feel gratitude for such luck, ‘suerte’. I renew myself to my practice, to my friends, to my loved ones, and to knowing strangers with intention.