The
studio where I teach hatha yoga in Virginia is a serene place. Potted
lilac and jasmine plants are tucked in the corners of the room and
their scent subtly insinuates itself into the yoga classes, melting
any lingering signs of stress in the faces of the students, most of
whom have just finished a long day of work. Yoga is a very new idea to
the majority of the students; most know little more about the practice
than that it challenges them in unaccustomed ways, and that they leave
the class shining and smiling -- a big change from how they entered.
The
studio is decorated with quotes and pictures that, like the scent of
the lilacs, hint at the benevolence of the practice. My favorite is a
quote I look to at the beginning of my own hatha yoga practice for
inspiration. "Discipline," it says, "is remembering
what you want." This never fails to bring me back to what it is
that draws my students and me to this studio and this practice. Like
the inscription at Delphi that admonished Socrates "Know
thyself," this is an oracle, my wise counsel. We're here doing
this practice to know ourselves better, and to know and experience
what it is that we truly want. My practice, it reminds me, is worth
the salt of my brow only when I connect with my own heart, my own
deepest wish.
What
is at the heart of this practice? It's more than a physical routine;
its course is guided by an intention that goes far beyond whether one
can do a particular pose or not. If I were to put the intention in a
single word, it would be self-transcendence. Ultimately this means to
me that I go beyond my normal self-awareness and awaken again and
again to the presence of God. Time and effort have taught me that the
process of this awakening is a journey of many steps guided by grace,
and that self-transcendence takes many forms. But this process, in
whatever form it may take, is what I understand austerity to be.
Austerity, as it turns out, is not the medieval form of self-denial
I've occasionally romanticized in my own mind, but an affirmative
effort that transforms.
My
limited sense of self, of course, doesn't just accept being
transcended without putting up a fight, and that's where austerity has
earned its reputation as being a difficult process. The yogic word for
austerity is tapasya. Tapas literally means "heat," the kind
of heat generated by the friction and conflict associated with change.
Tapasya is akin to the fever that the body uses in its battle with
disease. In hatha yoga in particular, the practice works up a kind of
fever as heat arises from inner resistance -- whether the physical
resistance of a muscle to a stretch, or an emotional resistance to the
demands of a pose.
I've
had a long relationship with resistance in its many forms in my yoga
practice. Sometimes the resistance is direct and unequivocal -- a
clear "no!" -- and sometimes it is cushioned and concealed
by rationalizations -- such as "I'm not into this today; this
isn't what I need." A dialogue goes on between me and my
practice, in which the practice pokes around my subconscious,
provoking such reactions. In this process of self-inquiry I discover
elements of my own nature that I can't imagine discovering otherwise.
Some of the elements I respect as wisdom; some become grist for the
mill of tapasya.
Resistance
comes up when patterns of energy that have become habitual are
challenged. I have plenty of such patterns; the most obvious example
is my everyday posture. A good part of my hatha yoga practice has been
directed toward working with my posture for quite important reasons,
and the process has indeed been an austerity.
Posture
is of course a given -- it defines us as human beings, and even
defines us as individuals. We can recognize someone from a distance
just by the posture, for posture expresses that person's unique
energy. Yet posture not only defines; it can also confine. Before
beginning yoga I had become quite stoop-shouldered because of an
asthmatic condition. Asthma was largely the cause of my collapsed
posture, since the episodes would tighten my chest right at the
throat. My posture was self-protective; it was as if my throat was
being attacked, and any attempts I made to change my posture would
often trigger even more asthma. The condition even had an emotional
element, which turned upon a deep sense of vulnerability that led me
to bottle up feelings rather than expose them to censure. My shoulders
served to protect the cork on the bottle.
Of
course I sought medical advice and looked into my diet, all of which
helped a great deal. But yet the dynamic of the condition had already
written itself into my posture, and medicine couldn't reach that.
Posture is our comfort zone, even when it takes an enormous amount of
extra energy to maintain it. My posture inflicted additional pain by
causing tension in the overworked muscles of my shoulders and upper
back. Even as my body cried out for change, it also resisted change.
Some muscles had become tight, others weak, so regardless of my
efforts to open my chest I was constantly pulled back to the same
shape the moment I became unconscious of my posture once again.
The
posture was more than physical. I noticed its connection to a kind of
darkness in my mood -- an introversion that was both shy and somehow
resentful. As I did seva in the gardens of Gurudev Siddha Peeth, the
sun would beat down upon my shoulders in the hot season, exaggerating
my rounded and protective posture. The grumbling of my mind increased
exponentially. Several times I saw this mood reflected in my posture
when I glanced at myself in the bookstore window; and I realized,
"If I continue to look this way, I'll continue to feel this
way." I couldn't blame my mood on events or people -- though I
did project it out upon those around me (and I knew it) -- rather it
was the result of the shape that I had taken. The moment I stood
upright to smile and appreciate the day, and how even delicate flowers
could flourish in the sun with proper care, the mood vanished entirely
-- at least until I fell back into my accustomed posture.
More
often than not, however, when I was confronted with opportunities to
think and respond and even stand differently, my reaction would be,
"This is just the way I am." I had established my safety
zone, and didn't like to be nudged out of it, even if I did want to
change. Although self-acceptance is usually a healthy sign of
maturity, some patterns cause so much grief and all-around unhappiness
that they merit rethinking and remolding. This, I recognized, was one
such pattern. The question was, how?
Tapasya
is the process of this remolding; it is the choice to find a better
way. Tapasya is the transformation of our conscious energy into more
constructive patterns. I just needed a practice as the context for
this process. Hatha yoga fit the bill, since it is an individual
practice aimed at steady, noncompetitive transformation -- a process
largely free from comparison and judgement, thus sparing me much of
the burden of my own defensiveness.
The
choice was a good one because, as a practice, the postures or asanas
of hatha yoga provide new forms, new conduits for shaping patterns of
energy. And the work with my posture had a direct effect on my mood as
well, beginning to pull me out of myself as my body opened in the
poses.
At
the same time, it was a fiery process -- far less "safe"
than I had thought. I felt the power of the asanas especially in the
resistance they generate. They do challenge our settled patterns, and
the process can be painful, difficult and frustrating. But the asanas
are also a constructive means to work with these difficulties. Rather
than attack my stooped shoulders directly, hatha yoga gave me a number
of postures that moved and stretched them in ways that felt good and
helped me to understand them. This in itself changed my feeling about
the poses, so that even when I met with physical resistance and
impossible stiffness, it seemed like a worthwhile cause. Emotional
resistance did come up too, and I often burned with the surprising
amount of anger and resentment they stirred up. But my attitude toward
myself in the face of these feelings was different; it was not
defensive or even judgmental, because perhaps for the first time I
recognized that what was coming up was not "me," but
patterns of reacting to situations that could be changed. As
embarrassing and unpleasant as the feelings were, "I" was
not on trial, so I could let them be and move on with my practice.
The
postures also poked at my asthma, and I did suffer asthma attacks in
which my lungs burned and hurt. But the practice taught me to breathe
more fully and evenly, patiently opening my lungs to the breath. I
found that this relaxed and progressive deepening of my breathing
burned up the congestion, slowly freeing me from the attacks.
This
was tapasya, which was challenging and transforming my normal way of
being. And I found that the asanas didn't just break the patterns that
were draining my energy. They also worked to collect and contain my
energy, bottling it up rather than letting it flow out wastefully.
When doing the asanas, I could feel that energy rumbling inside. A
different blueprint was being assigned; the asanas were blowing old
fuses and burning up old wiring as that energy blazed along new paths.
This is tapasya in the classic sense. The 'burning" associated
with tapasya is not just the fire of anger and resistance to change.
The "burning" comes from a consolidation and expansion of
energy, from containing, conserving and redirecting the creative fire
of my own consciousness.
This
tapasya is different from repression. Repression temporarily denies
the expression of a tendency and puts it out of your awareness until
it finally explodes, venting its pent-up fury in inappropriate ways.
Tapasya is a very conscious process of creative action and
contemplation that depends almost entirely upon your own intention,
attitude, vigilance and self-awareness. This is the kind of effort
that draws grace. Nothing ultimately stays hidden, whether a desire,
tendency or urge. As everything is brought to light and new forms are
applied, the energy you had invested in harmful patterns is transmuted
into higher forms of expression and experience through a kind of
divine alchemy.
I've
seen the magic of this alchemy confirmed time and time again as I
watch my students struggle with the same process and share their
stories. In general, it seems that when we do not give in to reacting
to a difficulty in an habitual or unconscious way, our mind is somehow
freed to become more focused, perceptive and established in its own
power. One dramatic example of the power of tapasya was given by a
friend whose son came down with the chicken pox and was warned not to
scratch the sores on his face no matter how they bothered him. Instead
of struggling directly with the temptation to scratch, the boy began
to watch the trees outside his window and held silent conversations
with them, becoming absorbed in this newfound friendship. As the days
passed, the father noticed how dramatically this experience changed
his son. By the end of his illness, the boy had become far more quiet,
focused, perceptive and contented than he had ever been.
In
the same way, when I look for ways to live in a hatha yoga pose by
exploring and understanding it, rather than bearing with its
discomforts until the timer says I can come out, the quality of my own
mind is altered dramatically. It is far more relaxed, focused and at
peace, and my love for the practice as this kind of tapasya grows.
Grace
is tangibly present as a kind of silent partner in the process. It is
the energy that bears me up and takes me through even when my mind is
thrashing about for an excuse to stop. Grace also lets me know when I
have had enough, particularly when the mind tries to push too hard.
The fruit of grace is always a sense of peace and fulfillment,
regardless of how the mind may want to judge my practice according to
its own agenda.
For
those who have a taste of this fruit, tapasya becomes a passion.
Tapasya does involve pain and difficulty, but the pain is not the
point. Tapasya does not rest upon the dictum, "No pain, no
gain." Love and the affirmation of your own goodness and
worthiness are the forces that move you to scatter your own darkness,
rather than any philosophy that preaches the necessity of suffering.
Tapasya is this spiritual passion, this love of true freedom in which
you burn and love the flame. In this passion love and resistance,
desire and aversion, courage and fear rub like sticks to kindle your
heart with a desire to be transfigured, to forge ahead in spite of the
heat. This passion is not a burden; it is the soul's delight.
Resistance
is at the root of the discomfort we feel in this "burning,"
yet I've learned to welcome my own resistance, because it is
resistance that makes the whole process work, whether in opening
myself in a hatha yoga pose or in opening myself to life. The
experience of tapasya teaches that love and resistance are the two
principles behind the "aerodynamics" of the soul. If love is
our wings, resistance is the air that lifts us into flight. Tapasya is
the process of remembering what we truly want and opening our wings.
Grace is the miracle of flight that happens when our wings catch the
wind of our own stubborn resistance to change. Effort, resistance and
grace lift us high to view the landscape of our lives, to admire its
beauty and to love it with a greater sense of mastery, wisdom, purpose
and direction, and a clear awareness of the presence of grace. This
experience of freedom, of loving and of being loved, is the true gift
of tapasya.
