Smoke Gets in Your (Third) Eye

Yoga teachers are interesting paradoxes.  While we're busy reassuring others of the perfect, eternal, undefinable Spirit within (and really, truly believing it); our own lives are often wrought with self-denial, self-hate, putting others before ourselves, posturing and a yen for outside validation.  If you're looking for a yoga teacher who is a living, breathing incarnation of unconditional self-love and acceptance; you will most likely find eventual disappointment.  If you are seeking a partner on your path, someone who every now and then speaks to your own Divine inner teacher, and someone who can use their human-ness to create a framework for self-reflection, you'll find those in abundance.


Okay, let's cut through the pontificating (awesome word, BTW).  It comes as no surprise to anyone that I (if we must put a formal name to it) deal with depression.  What is surprising is that I'm calling it by name and just putting it out there.  After I'm done advocating self-love (not that kind of self-love, people) and reverence toward your divine self for roughly 75-minute windows, I'm whipping myself.  This is what goes on in my head:


"You should be a better mother."
"You don't deserve S. (my husband)"
"The front lawn looks crazy.  Why aren't you working on that?"
"You should be making more money."
"You should be thinner."
"You shouldn't be eating meat."
"You should be yogi-er."


That kind of bullshit.


It's this kind of self-talk, borne of all the usual childhood abuses and genetic predispositions, that lies at the heart of episodes of epic self-hate and the potential dissolution of my marriage.  My discontent with self has the unfortunate side-effect of resentment and condescension toward others; what I've tried to position as a sort of tough love or above-it-all-ness.  I've set my own personal standards so impossibly high, it's unlikely anyone could meet them.   


Patanjali wrote that this world, this life, exists solely to recognize and manifest our Divinity.  Without this frame of reference, we cannot separate the real from the unreal, the fleeting and the eternal.  I have my work cut out for me.


I'll be back to read this in another year, I'm sure, with equal parts sympathy and not a little embarrassment.  What I'm really trying to do here is quit denying myself.  I don't deserve a prize for it, but neither should I constantly second-guess myself.  


My husband and I have decided to see a therapist.  I write this with a mixture of relief and a bit of a chuckle.  We're gonna do it.  We're going to hop on that wagon and be that suburban couple in therapy.  I can begin sentences with, "My therapist said...," or "I learned in therapy...".  For God's sake, I hope it helps.  I don't really think it could make things worse.  I can see the light!  In fact, I see it quite often.  I would just like to park my ever-lovin' soul there for good.  Or at least long-term.


When S. made the appointment, he was asked, "Is there any physical abuse in the relationship?"  He said  no.  


"That's a good start, then," the good doctor replied.  "We can put you both in the same room.  We have couples who come in here and, at some point, the wife gets up and whacks her husband upside his head.  So at least we don't have that to deal with."


This is true.

Chewed the bone down too low
Got fed on tea and sympathy
Blew the sail like the wind
I wish you were my enemy

I was humble for you
What a fool I've been to have
Laid so low
for so long

Into that void of silence
Where we cry without sound
Where tears roll down
Where tears roll down


Where my father's violence
Sent my soul underground
Where tears roll down
Where tears roll down

Drew the blade way too slow
Was shackled by your honesty
Made a mess, I 
guess I 
should have known
That life was lust and liberty

Not a chance mutation
or the last temptation
Laid so low
for so long 
so low

This story will tell you much of what you need to know about my children.

At 10 years old, N. is my oldest. Handsome, gentle-hearted, slightly socially inept, and earnest to a fault; he is pretty much me at that age. A., on the other hand, is 5 years old and his father's son to be sure - universally adored, wide-eyed and very aware of his capacity to emotionally manipulate people (mostly me).

A. began his first week at "big-boy school" and happily followed big brother everywhere he could - to the bus, on the bus, at school to the extent he was able, and back 'round again. To say he was excited about kindergarten is an understatement; he could barely talk straight amid the giddy convulsions when I asked about his first day. I had to get the boys out of school early on day 3 and A. wept as he explained to me, "We were about to go to art. I've been waiting forever for art." N., on the other hand, had already concluded by day 3 that fifth grade was going to be utterly boring.

Anyhow, on with the story. Toward the end of that first week, the boys are walking back from the bus stop (holding hands even, I nearly exploded with love for those kids, but - ahem! - back to the story). A. is clearly excited about something. As they approach, he shows me his wrist and, on it, four little beads strung on a white elastic string. "It's a friendship bracelet," he beamed, "and it's magic." N. rolls his eyes.

Naturally, I inquire. "What's so magic about it?" He explains, "The beads, they turn colors in the light, see?" He covers the bracelet with a tiny hand to shield it fromt he sunlight. I am under his spell, and am compelled to comply. We "ooh" and "ahh" over the bracelet together on the way to the front door.

N. can take it no more. He finally turns to A. and announces: "I'm sure there's a very logical explanation for that. A. looks at the bracelet and considers this.

And just before I am about to tell N. to 'zip it!', A. replies "I know! It's just magical, right?" as if his brother gave him the ultimate endorsement.

"Yep. Hey, let's go play Pokemon." And that was that.

I am a skeptic. I like my assertions served up with a nice side of supporting facts, graphs, statistics and case studies. In my previous incarnation as a market researcher, I had to be very careful indeed about the statements I derived from the data given to me. Still, my propensity to doubt and demand proof goes back way beyond that, too.

This is all very well and, in fact, is probably more the norm than the exception in Western circles. Except now I’m a serious student of yoga, and a teacher sometimes too, so my desire for hard data is often met with frustration. It’s something I’ve thought about a lot, and I don’t think it’s just a yogic phenomenon. It is said that the spiritual believer must simply surrender to his or her faith. In my gut, I must admit that still find that, to a large extent, unsatisfactory.



I read Paramahansa Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi about two years ago, and from the beginning, Yoganandaji put forth that yoga is a science, that none of this was voodoo or psycho-spiritual weirdness, that levitating and being in two places at once was, quite simply, a matter of applying simple yogic practices. Even Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras can be described as a terse, concise and practical guide to Self-realization – I mean, it’s more practical and easier to read than the user’s manual that came with my new mobile phone, for Shiva’s sake.

Jan 4. Tired, sore, dirty.

Sunday morning satsang involves a roughly 1.5 mile walk into the village, over the dam and arriving at the lake. We settle in for lakeside meditation, with a beautiful view of the sunrise over the mountains. After a few moments of silence, I hear voices and the unmistakable squeal of children. Peering in the direction of the noise, I notice a man and three of his young children bathing in the lake. It was a cool morning; too cool for a bath, but the kids were playing, swimming, laughing nonetheless. My meditation was shot, I couldn't take my eyes off of this gorgeous scene. Or maybe it became a different sort of meditation. My heart groaned for a moment and thought of Noah and Arj.

It would soon come to my attention that there were two very young children at the ashram with their parents, and it was pure heartache to hear their voices and watch them romp about. I even wished them gone several times. But it was pure heaven when I could interact with them, touch a little foot, tickle a sweet tummy to produce a smile!

Sunday morning satsang was a fire ritual, a puja dedicated to Ganesha. Appropriate enough for the official day of initiation. We were settling in, when one of the teaching staff approached the girl next to me, thwacked her outstretched legs and whispered menacingly into her ear. Poor girl explained to me as she meekly tucked her feet cross-legged: "Apparently, it's highly disrespectful to show one's feet in the direction of the altar." I made a mental note; as I wasn't prepared to be made an example of - at least not yet. Om Gam Ganapatiye Namaha...

The swamis and teaching staff initiated us at that evening's satsang and bestowed upon us our fine uniforms ("yellow is the color of learning, white the color of purity!"), our textbooks and a composition book. We were to immediately retreat to the dorms, change into uniforms and return without delay. That may have been the only time during the entire 4 weeks that anyone there was excited about wearing that fine ensemble; but let me not cheapen the moment here - it was a beautiful evening, full of hope, excitement, anticipation. Maybe dread, too, but that's beside the point...

I've made some fast friends already, as you can imagine in such a pressure-cooker environment. Many are travelers without a concrete plan; it surprised me, I guess. My beautiful amiga Margaret taught in Tibet, trekked/hitchiked across Mongolia, and explored the northern reaches of India before landing here, and this was not entirely atypical. Mary, whom I had brought home with me straight from the airport, had no real plan for going home after graduation; she only knew she wanted to get to the Phillipines at some point. No hurry.


All of the "TTCers" (as we would become known, to differentiate us from pansy 2-week "vacationers") had arrived and been initiated, and tomorrow would be our first day of regular lectures and asana.

Late to the party yet again, I'm joining the millions of folks out there seeking validation through the public musings of their own warped minds. A very funny conversation with a friend several months ago occurs to me that can be distilled down to: "Why would anyone deem their own mundane lives valuable enough to the rest of us that they need to write about it?" Please note, this friend, and most of my others, are bloggers (and mostly good ones). So here I go, officially opening myself up to this phenomenon and hoping that, even if it doesn't improve anyone's life outright, it will at least be entertaining for you, dear reader, and fun for me. Validation would be nice, too...

There's certainly no better time than now. I've just returned from a 4-week stay at an ashram in India that begs to be blogged about, and I've no doubt been doing just that in my head. But right now, at the keyboard, I'm at a loss. A 28-day yoga training intensive that was easily the most disciplined and difficult thing I've done in my adult life...how do I write about such an experience without cheapening it? Without losing some part of its meaning and impact? Without succumbing to my need to make everything at least mildly funny?

So, then, I will begin posting my notes from worn journal. I hope I can convey to you the same joy, frustration, devastation, resentment, appreciation and love that I experienced during my time away. And with that, my blogging adventure begins...