Looking inside

Image of a book cover for Inside Yoga by Lloyd Goldstein, http://lloydgoldstein.com/?page_id=5

I had an opportunity this afternoon to lead a group of students and faculty where I teach this afternoon in a five-minute round of yoga. The yoga exercises were designed to be a break between an opening session of a weekend residency and a study group meeting. With five minutes, I wanted to give the group a few brief exercises that they could do on similar breaks with little fanfare throughout the weekend and in their regular lives.
My five minute session had an additional twist. One of the participants was blind.

I knew about this in advance. Wanting to include everyone without calling attention to anyone, I made my plans carefully. I figured that I could lead the group through the practice of a full yogic breath and the practice of using self-generated electricity from rubbing the hands together to activate and warm the eyes, ears, neck, solar plexus, and kidneys with words alone. But I also wanted to teach a simple sun salutation. Could I do that without showing them how it was done?

A full yogic breath is a controlled deep breath in which the inhale and exhale are done through the nose. The inhale begins in the belly, puffing it outward like a balloon, extends to the rib cage with the side muscles and spaces in between the ribs stretched, and then moves upward into the chest, making the breasts, well, heave upward. The exhale occurs in reverse, with air slowly being released from the chest, the ribs, and the belly. Seven of these full yogic breaths, three times a day, is one of the best ways to ignite a home practice, as a yoga instructor explained to me in 2010. After managing for five years to practice the ritual at least twice a day, I would say that the instructor has a point. Even if I do no other yoga, the deep breathing pumps oxygen into and out of my lungs and leaves me feeling relaxed and refreshed.

The use of one’s own body electricity is activate key points is a long-running practice that informs not only yoga but also tai chi and such healing arts as reiki. I often do it after a workout or a yoga class, as a way of re-energizing myself.

The sun salutation is a basic stretching routine that reaches most major muscle groups. I have advocated its merits ever since the early 1990s when I heard a running coach describe it as a good warm-up routine for marathon training. It involves stretching the arms upward, bending forward at the waist and letting the head drop below the knees, stepping back into a lunge, then bringing the other leg back into a plank, lowering the body into a difficult arm balance known as chattaranga, arching the spine upward into a pose known as cobra or upward dog, raising the hips skyward to form the downward facing dog pose as an upside down V, bringing one leg forward so that the leg opposite of earlier is stretched into a lunge, stepping forward legs forward and dropping the head down into the forward bend, and finally rising up and raising the arms over the head before dropping them down to stand in the strong mountain pose.

I have taught this routine to numerous friends over the years, particularly my friends who are recreational runners. Many of them have thanked me for helping them avert injuries. I never before, however, taught it to someone who could not see.
I thought this idea over earlier this week as I was in a yoga class. In this class, like so many others, I go through much of the practice with my eyes closed or at least averted from the teaching and facing the floor. I do this largely so that I do not get distracted and so that my body can “find” the pose on its own. I never gave the habit much thought, until this afternoon.

“You can watch me if you’d like,” I suggested, as my five minute session began. “But I’m going to encourage you not to do that. Look inside you instead. Yoga, after all, is a practice for you. It’s about caring for your body, your soul.”

In the early phase of my instructions, I caught a glimpse of the blind participant. I had said “bring your hands to your heart,” wanting the students to press their palms together in the namaste position. The blind participant brought her hands to the heart but simply held them there limp. That reminded me of the importance of being specific. “Press your palms together,” I said. The participant responded.
From there, it was smooth sailing. We finished the sun salutation and the group applauded in appreciation. After they left, I marveled at what I had learned about what I had previously taken for granted. You don’t always need an external model to tell you what’s right. Simply, look to your own body. Look inside.

Lessons

I am trying to re-start my blog-writing practice, after an absence of several months. In addition to Moving Your Body, which I’ve maintained since 2012, I’ve created and maintained blogs on short stories, poetry, teaching, sustainability, and hip hop.

The plethora of blogs is a result of a range of projects with which I am involved. For years, I have hoped to find a cohesive thread that would miraculously stitch all of my interests together. At this point, I have decided that no such thread exists, beyond the fact that it is I who maintains all of the interests — and am better off for being multifaceted, as a result.
The plethora of blogs let me dip in and dip out of my varied projects, much as my life as a professor allows for, as well. Always, I have hoped that there are two basic pursuits that set the base melody for everything else: writing and exercise. Both used to be off and on practices for me until late 2010 when I began to realize that if I wanted to live a long, healthy, and happy life, I needed to get serious about the things that would make that life long and healthy. Hence, I began to move my body and I began to write not just morning pages but a night stint at 750words.com, and afternoon stints, as well.

Things went along quite well for awhile. Then, it seemed, that a series of personal and existential crises took over: My mother fell ill and required a series of surgeries. The surgeries caused me to divert my focus. My body sustained a running injury and required some major rest. The injury caused me to divert my focus. My mother recovered in a seeming miraculous way. I couldn’t pull off a similar recovery with either my writing or my fitness training.

But now … I hope that I am back and ready for a re-start. As I begin my fourth year with this blog, it seems that looking back, I have learned a life lesson or two.

I am registered for three races, as of today: a 10K in April, the Fronhofer Tool Olympic Distance Triathlon in August, and the Twin Cities Marathon in October. My husband and I probably will also register next week for our favorite New York state 5K — the Run 4 Your Life, which is sponsored by firefighters and takes place on the last Saturday in March in Schenectady.
How are these registrations tied to life lessons? I think there are a few answers here.

First, I have found out that I’m not easily the type of person who can exercise, just for the heck of it. I know, logically, that exercise is a good healthful practice. It regulates one’s weight, one’s emotional sense of well-being, and one’s level of stress at the very least. Yet, I also know that I am susceptible — especially when cold and tired — to sitting out a day of exercise, or of calling the two or three trips up and down the stairs from my campus building’s front door to my third floor office the same thing as a strong cardio workout, if the mood does not arise. With a goal — a race, particularly — that indulgence disappears. I have no aspirations of winning these races — they are fun, recreational events. But I do not want to finish them feeling fat, ungainly, out of shape, or ready to puke. I know that people will be watching me and that someone will take my picture. Call me vain, but I want to look good in that picture.

In addition, races cost money. A lack of money prevented me from entering races last year. My husband encouraged me not to give up and to train as if I were preparing for races. Several friends urged me to do the same. I gave that intention my best shot, and while I cannot say that I failed, I will say that it was easier to give in to the lethargy that sometimes overtakes me when I’m busy, especially. This year, I didn’t want to be prevented from entering races so I budgeted carefully and differently. I learned to time registration payments around paychecks and in concert with monthly bills. That planning has paid off, not only for race registrations but for other aspects of life. After a few years of wondering if I would ever get off the treadmill of living paycheck to paycheck, I feel marvelously solvent.

The final lesson is tied to fun. Several years ago I remember taking in a statement by the creativity coach Julia Cameron of The Artist’s Way fame, which basically asserted that it was a lot easier for people to follow her regimen of writing three pages a day longhand (morning pages) than it was to take her mandated half-hour self-date (the Artist’s Date). The reason why? It’s easier to work (three pages of longhand every morning, first thing in the morning) than it is to play (spend half an hour in a drug store selecting different shades of nail polish). So, I’m not a big fan of nail polish, but I have to admit that races are fun. The music pulsates, the crowd cheers, people dress up in funny hats, and free food abounds. Before the race, there’s the agony of anticipation and afterwards the self-satisfied joy of completion. There’s a banana, a tub of yogurt, a power bar, coffee, soft drinks, cookies, hot chili, and of course the t-shirt. And more music.

So if nothing else, let’s say that one should enter races for fun. Consider them the artist’s date for athletes. Or the imaginary life of the athlete for the artist.