Ever said something like this before?

“I’m a worrier.”
“I’m a fighter.”
“I’m a winner.”
“I’m a loser.”
“I’m a snacker.”

People make these “I am a —er,” statement all the time, to themselves and conversationally. It makes sense: the “—er” statements are statements of identity, and we humans like other humans to know what kind of humans we are. We also like to know what kind of humans we are.

When we know who we are and we know what we do, we know what we’re going to get. It’s a way of predicting the future, and bringing some feeling of certainty to our uncertain and very mortal worlds.

And yet, who you are and what you do aren’t the same thing at all. One is a state of being, the other is an action. Still, the identity statement is about things that you do, not things that you are. At some point you made a choice to do some worrying (or snacking, or fighting, or winning, etc.) because it served a purpose.

So, you did it again. Then it became a habit. Then the habit became deeply ingrained, automatic and unconscious, as habits do. The —er wound itself so deeply into what it’s like to be you that it became indistinguishable.

This kind of talk – “I am a —er” – takes away your power. When you identify with the thing that you do, the behavior becomes immovable. If you are that, it’s a fact and there is nothing you can do to change it. But if you do that… you can also do something else instead. It might be challenging – we get really attached to the “er” because it is predictable and safe – but it is possible.

Tangentially, the “er” identity statement has a close relative in the “I am the kind of person who…” statement. Like the er, it is fully externalized. Identity is attached to some action, or to some agreed upon external definition of what “the kind of person who…” is like and how they act. Again, it serves the purpose of predictability and safety.

The best news about all of this is that you can use this er/kind idea to your advantage, too. Once you’ve decided that you are something and tell yourself this enough times that you start to believe it, your brain will look for evidence of this prospect everywhere. Your brain doesn’t like being wrong about things. It likes patterns, because patterns are predictable and predictability is safe. This is why changing foundational identity beliefs is so hard, and why we all keep them hidden from ourselves in plain sight. To your lizard brain, when you’re right, you survive. When you’re wrong, you die. The good news is that as a conscious being, you get to choose what you’re right about.

This is not to say that if you tell yourself you are a bird, you’ll be able to fly (but who knows?), because you showed up human this time around and your human brain is really into this survival thing. In the life or death battle of ideas, though, conscious thought is central to whether you’re able to soar.

“Pratyahara results in the absolute control of the sense organs.”

From the get-go, we’re told that yoga has one aim: to end suffering, and that suffering is a condition of not being present in the moment. In other words, suffering is in the mind.

So, suffering is easy enough to fix. Just be in the present moment. That’s so easy that that we’ve spent a few thousand years figuring out exactly how to do that.

Pratyahara – withdrawal of the senses – is the fifth of the eight limbs of yoga. The first two (yamas and niyamas) are the ethical disciplines that keep us from creating more trouble (karma). Then there’s asana and pranayama, to settle the body and get it processing properly. In pratyhara, we come to the mind.

It’s not that the sense organs stop working in pratyahara, it’s that we withdrawal attention to them.

Mastery of the senses in this way is ultimately mastery of the mind. Thoughts are the product of and response to sensations in the body. They can be pleasant (we get attached) or unpleasant (we’re averse). But ultimately, they’re just thoughts.

When I was practicing a restorative pose and getting good and relaxed yesterday, my dog came over and stuck her nose in my hand. That sensation could result in a number of thoughts. “Dammit, dog, leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m trying to relax?” That can rapidly turn into a story about how I never catch a break, and I could spend all of my “relaxing” time bemoaning my fate, reinforcing a bad idea, and being mad at my dog. Or, the thought might be, “She wants to hang out with me! She’s so wonderful! I should get her a treat. Later we’ll go for a walk.” Then, I spend my whole practice in a happy fantasy about all of the things I could do for my dog, and feel guilty when I realize some of them won’t work out. Or, my response might be, “Dog. Doing dog thing.” And then I return to my practice. (And she wanders off to sack out on the sofa.)

Practicing pratyhara can be terrifying or wonderful. It’s terrifying, because it forces us to turn inward. In a sense, we practice pratyhara every evening as we get ready to sleep. We turn off the lights, turn off noisy devices, close our eyes, and wait for sleep. After a day of doing stuff and responding to sensation every which way, we’re left to the contents of the mind. Where does the mind go when there is nothing left to respond to? If it’s not in a state of mastery, it goes to what is habitual, routine, and comfortable. In other words, it continues to respond to all of the stimulation of the past with nothing to keep it in check. This is where those anxious, sleepless nights happen. The wonderful part of pratyahara happens when we actually get to turn off completely, find relief from the mind, relax, and fall asleep (or fall into a deep state of meditation).

Back in the 90s, En Vogue sang, “Free your mind and the rest will follow.”* As I sit here solidly in middle age, I think there is a double meaning here. It’s not “the rest” as in “everything else.” It’s “the rest” as in “the sleep.” Free your mind from your senses, and get some rest.

*I can’t mention this song with nodding to the inspiration for its title, the Funkadelic song, “Free Your Mind And Your Ass Will Follow.” That also applies, but it’s a different kind of yoga.

In class today, the teacher ended with a short reading about celebration. I immediately thought of my other professional life, in which I work in digital and print media, with a niche in long term care.

Almost twenty years in, I’ve become keen to how much celebrating goes on. I’ve assembled a monthly newsletter for one assisted living community for a good four years now and I’ve nearly run out of ways to say “celebrate.” Every month there are celebrations, for the major holidays, the minor holidays, when the weather changes, when the weather really changes (it’s in Pennsylvania), staff and resident milestones, the start of a project, the end of a project, and of course, the monthly birthday luncheons.

If you were old, frail, and living in a nursing home or assisted living facility, would you want to celebrate? You’d think not, but reading the newsletters, it seems like being frail is one big party, not the reality of impaired vision, obscured hearing, lost memories, and incontinence.

But, when you think about it, it’s not really different from any other age. Every age has it’s realities that would seem to defy its brighter points: the acne and rage of adolescence, the uncertainty of early adulthood, the bodily heaviness and spiritual emptiness of middle age.

What’s the difference then? In long term care, there is a formalized system of the youngers looking after the elders, and for those who love the work and stick with it long enough run programs, they’re looking after the elders with admiration and a kind of love that you only really get if you’re in the biz. The elders have accomplished so much and persisted so long, and the time to acknowledge it is short. Their time has a fathomable end.

A lot of times, I don’t want to celebrate: when I’ve overextended myself again, when life feels like an ever narrowing path of limitations, when my body has started making new rules about what I can and can’t do (coffee and chocolate combined are not allowed, alcohol is permitted only in small amounts and without sugar, all-nighters are off the menu, and concerts that require three hours of standing are for special occasions only).

But then – then! – younger me steps in to remind me that I’m the strongest I’ve ever been, confident enough not to care about missing out on some events that I secretly didn’t enjoy when I was younger anyway, that I have as much freedom as a working adult could possibly have, and that everything I have ever encountered since being younger – good or bad – has changed.

And there it is: the reminder that time may bring with it perils, pain, and some regrets, but the flip side of every pain and every regret is the ever shortening amount of time to enjoy what any of us do have, whether it’s worked out the way we expected or not. The stuff I might wish I’d done differently is completed and farther away with each passing day, so I don’t really have to worry about it anymore.

Party time!

There is no way of knowing, the first time you step on a rented mat and feel your shoulders burn in warrior two, or the first time you pop in a Rodney Yee DVD, that if you’re up for it, life can change. Really, there is no magic to the postures – they are just shapes- and it doesn’t ever have to be more than simple physical exercise. Unless it does.

There is this funny perception of yoga people, that we are these spacey hippie folks, out of touch with the world. The opposite is true. In the practice, if one chooses, one finds permission to feel things deeply, fully, and authentically, in a way that one can only feel when one knows with absolute certainty that it must change. That is where the mellowness comes from. It is not born of detachment from the world, but rather complete engagement in it.

This paradox is the heart of the practice. Yoga exists at the place where things become their opposites. Yoga is in the blurry, gray space where yang becomes yin, where pleasure becomes pain, where fragile becomes indestructible, where discomfort becomes release, where the struggle becomes freedom.

Even teaching itself is a paradox, communicating that which cannot be communicated, only experienced. Words make a shape around the essence of the experience, like a wax mold, but they are not the experience itself.

As one of my fellow teachers has stated more succinctly and perfectly than I can, “I’m always teaching yoga.” I AM always teaching yoga. There is the practice on the mat, and there is the practice off the mat, but really there is just the practice. Just yoga, yoking, union. Just life, fully present in that blurry space from which everything becomes clear.

I no longer worry about making space for the practice in my life. My life is the practice.

Since I started teaching yoga, I have used the word “ribcage” probably fifty to one hundred times per week. I never thought much of it until a few weeks ago, when a fellow teacher used the term “ribcase” instead of “ribcage” in a class.

As a yoga teacher and writer I spend most of my life thinking about how people think, specifically about the embedded messages in language and what lies in the unconscious – individual and collective. I have been talking about this in class lately. Listen: when you literally, intentionally put your heart above your head, your creative brain knows exactly what you’re up to and integrates this information. It gets it. It knows what a heart is. The framework of the chakras is a helpful and very powerful visualization of the body, but the teaching can be transmitted without it. In yoga your body gains strength and health by leading with the heart and learning what to engage and what to release to find balance. Your brain hears this. It’s smart. It gets the message.

But, back to the ribcage / ribcase moment. When I heard the word “ribcase” it struck me how odd it is that we call the bony structure around the heart a “cage.” A cage is for holding back something which needs to be controlled and keeping it contained. A case is for putting something fragile on display, making it accessible and usable. These are very different ways of communicating what a heart is, and the brain, it gets it.

It is easy to get impatient with the less active parts of a yoga practice. Particularly when we are new to the practice, or at times when we are full of vibrant energy, the slow breathing and centering activity at the beginning of a class and relaxation at the end can feel aggravating. It’s time to DO yoga! Get moving! Burn calories! Flush out the toxins! Go, go, go!

These are precisely the times when it is important to take a few moments to do nothing. As we center ourselves before the practice and relax at the end, it may very well be the only time in the day or week when we are not only permitted, but required to do NOTHING. Just sit there and breathe, as an objective observer of our own bodies and minds.

When we do nothing but sit and watch the breath, the breath automatically changes whether or not we intend it. Likewise, when we observe the turnings of the mind in sivasana, the act of objectively watching the thoughts that rise and fall in the mind -without engagement- changes those thoughts. Not by an act of will, but simply by becoming aware, everything changes. The breath softens, and in turn the body relaxes. The mind begins to quiet.

We know this same thing about the outer world through quantum physics; the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle tells us that the act of observing subatomic particles changes some properties of those particles. The observer becomes part of the observed system. As it goes for subatomic particles, so it goes for the breath and the mind. How very valuable it is to do nothing; those few moments of nothing during the day help us to move through all of the somethings in our lives with greater ease and clarity.

Like so many of the yamas and niyamas, the concept of “asteya” is fairly simple: non-stealing. Also like the other yamas and niyamas, the principle of asteya has depth and applies both to interaction with the outside world and the world within.

At its most basic, asteya simply means not taking what isn’t yours. Most of us don’t steal, or at least we think we don’t steal. But, what if we considered all of our actions in the context of non-stealing? How often to we justify taking that which does not belong to us, whether it is a pack of post-its from the office, or shampoo from a hotel? Going a little deeper, we may find that on occasion what we steal from others is our attention. When we are with a friend or spouse but our mind is elsewhere, we are stealing away the care and attention that our friends and family deserve.

Sometimes, as we examine our behavior, we may find that we steal from others and ourselves at the same time. For example, people who are always late are stealing others’ time, and stealing their own time and peace of mind as they rush from place to place. Other times, we may find that we steal from ourselves with our thoughts, constantly inventing stories about our own limitations that keep us from fulling engaging with the world.

On the mat, we can apply the concept of asteya as we scan the body in postures, looking for places of holding or tension. Squinting or scrunching the face during a tedious posture steals energy from the parts of the body that hold the position. Another example is habitually clenching the hands during hip opening postures. Clenching the hands steals energy and focus away from the opening in the hips. We also steal energy from ourselves on the mat when we allow the mind to wander during the practice; we miss the process of the postures manifesting in the body.

As a teacher, I often think of asteya when I approach a class on a difficult day. I know that if I let my mind wander during the class, or if I settle for just going through the motions when I am tired or upset, I am stealing from my students. All of my students are entitled to my full attention, love, and commitment when they make the commitment of their time and resources to be in my class.

The process of seeing our own behavior through the lens of the yamas and niyamas can be painful. Sometimes this examination reveals aspects of oneself that are unpleasant or embarrassing. Perhaps this is why we start with ahimsa (non-harming) and satya (non-lying), so that we can meet ourselves with compassion and honesty.

The first of the eight limbs of yoga are the yamas, the “don’ts” of an ethical life. There are five yamas, the second of which is satya, non-lying. On the surface, the meaning of satya is obvious: tell the truth, all the time. For many, this may seem idealistic. Our experience tells us that there times when we must lie, especially to protect another person’s feelings. After all, if we tell the truth and it is hurtful, are we then not practicing ahimsa?

Satya is not a license to be cruel, or to spout off our opinions unsolicited. One can express the truth in a manner that is kind, even if the truth itself may cause temporary discomfort or disappointment.

It is interesting to think about what would happen if we really told the truth all the time, and how it would change our conversations, from the passing pleasantries we share with co-workers, to important discussions with our families. Instead of hardwired statements like “fine,””great,” “the usual,” and “of course, dear,” -which can bring their own harm- we might suddenly find our conversations filled with statements like, “I know, but I don’t want to tell you because I am afraid of what you will think of me,” and “I feel guilty because my opinion will hurt your feelings.” And sometimes, “I don’t know.”

How might your conversations change if after everything you said, you asked yourself, “is that so?” Truth telling is not restricted to our relationship with others. It applies to our relationship with ourself as well. Of the thousands of thoughts you have in a day, how many are actually true?

What might happen if each and every thought were followed by the statement “is that so?” “I need a cup of coffee.” Is that so? “Everything will be better once I finish this project.” Is that so? These are just the little thoughts that form our experience. What of the larger thoughts and stories about life that we don’t notice or question? “This is just how relationships are after a while.” Is that so? “I can’t enjoy this too much, or something bad will happen.” Is that so? “No one really gets me.” Is that so?

Most often, we don’t tell the truth because we are afraid, and with good reason. If we started to tell the truth all the time, our lives would change radically; it is easy to imagine. Anything that is no longer true for us would start to fall away, the relationships, the jobs, the tasks, even some things that seem to bring us pleasure. It sounds scary – what would be left? – but shedding that which is untrue about our lives is like shedding garments that no longer fit, or changing a hairstyle that is no longer flattering. Others may approve or disapprove, some may think we look like an entirely different person, but really, we have just found a more fitting way to move through the world.

This is the great power that exists in the truth. When we embrace it for ourselves, the world transforms around us.

The first of the eight limbs of yoga are the yamas, the “don’ts” of an ethical life. There are five yamas, the first of which is ahimsa, non-violence or non-harming. In the broadest sense, ahimsa means avoidance of causing physical harm to living beings, humans and critters alike. However, there is far more to the practice of ahimsa. It also applies to emotional harm, spiritual harm, or any other kind of harm.

It can be troubling to examine how each of our actions relates to ahimsa. Every action can contribute to suffering in some way, from the origin of the clothes we buy to the food we eat, to ignoring the needs of a spouse or friend, to driving aggressively. While awareness of the impact of our actions is important, sometimes it can leave us overwhelmed, forgetting about the practice of ahimsa toward ourselves.

The physical practice of yoga is a safe means for examining the ways in which we cause harm to ourselves with our thoughts and our expectations. Where does the mind go in a difficult posture? Do you get mad at yourself for not being able to achieve your ideal? Do you push yourself to the point at which you harm your body? Do you accept the posture as it is in your body? Or is it during difficult postures that you check out, adjust your clothing, take a drink of water? Do these thoughts, ideas, and expectations serve you, or harm you?

Over time, as we examine our thought patterns in the postures, we begin to recognize these patterns when we come off the mat. Sometimes we need to push ourselves into difficult situations in order to “find our edge,” but other times we push ourselves as punishment or as a means of atonement for a perceived shortcoming. We overwork the body because we think we are unattractive, we overwork ourselves because we think we don’t measure up to some arbitrary standard, we overcommit because we think people won’t like us if we say “no,” we over-schedule ourselves because we fear the truths that will arise when we are well-rested and centered. On and on these stories go. Sometimes our stories serve us, but when they become habit, automatic and unexamined, they cause suffering.

Many people come to yoga solely for the physical benefits of the practice, and over time come to appreciate the benefits of exploration of the mind. When we understand our mind, we are able to practice ahimsa toward ourselves. As we practice ahimsa toward ourselves, we develop a deeper understanding of the nature of suffering and liberation from it, which we can then extend unconditionally and without reservation to other beings. Once we understand it, we can give it away.

With Memorial Day this week, it is an appropriate time to bring attention to the body’s memory. Our physical bodies are the manifestation of every single thing that has ever happened to us: every thought, action or idea has shaped the body.

We know this to be true in a broad sense. We see changes in the body when we choose to exercise or not exercise or to eat well or not eat well. We know that the body will be stiff after sitting for a long period of time, and that the body will be limber if we have been stretching regularly. Likewise, all of the other billions and billions of actions of the body over a lifetime contribute to the body we have in this moment.

We know also that thoughts can cause changes in the body. Thoughts about that which angers us cause the blood pressure to rise and muscles to clench. Thoughts about that which brings us joy release serotonin in the brain, and cause the body to relax. Thoughts about that which causes anxiety or fear trigger an adrenaline response and shorten the breath. The billions and billions of thoughts we have had in our lives also had a part in shaping the body that we bring to our practice.

So, knowing that, we come to understand that the body has its own memory. Our feet may contain the memories of walking on sand, or standing in a stream, or wearing stiff, formal shoes. Our legs may contain the memories of walking city blocks, or trudging through deep snow, or doing squat thrusts. Our knees may contain the memories of kneeling in church, proposing to our spouse, or falling off a bike. Our hips may contain the memories of sexual activity, or dancing, or balancing a fidgety toddler. Our bellies may contain the memories of that feeling that something terrible has happened, or nervous butterflies before going on a date, or overeating at Thanksgiving. And on, and on it goes! Each part of the body contains and is shaped by every experience we have ever had.

How does knowing this add to our yoga practice? After all, the very first sutra tells us that yoga begins NOW, in THIS moment, in the present. The goal of the practice is to be fully present IN the the present. What, then, do we make of all of this talk of memory?

The unique experiences of our lives – every physical action and every thought – are what brought us to be in this practice in this particular body. When we understand that our practice will never and can never look like any other person’s practice because our body is completely unique, we are free. We are free to fully experience the beauty and perfection of the postures as they manifest uniquely in our own bodies. In this way, we can move toward total presence in the practice, and learn to carry this un-self-conscious presence into the rest of our lives.