Battling with Resistance

Why is it that the things that are good for us to do are often the things we most avoid? While steamed leafy greens, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, or skipping the butter all sound relatively easy in theory, how often is it that we actively put such brilliant ideas into practice? Why is it that the simple task of donning raingear and riding the bike seems so much more daunting than reaching for the car keys? Or perhaps on a broader level, why is it we hold back from going for that promotion or asking that cutie across the studio for their phone number? What are some ways that we can cultivate honor, respect, and compassion for ourselves and muster up some courage towards making change?

Resistance comes in many forms. Conjuring up excuses is one of them. Having unrealistic expectations is another. Succumbing to personal disrespect and indulging in the opposite of what we know is right is one of the most drastic forms of resistance, and perhaps the most severely addicting and potentially repetitive. It takes work to open up to the things just beyond our comfort level, especially when we find ourselves in an unproductive or destructive pattern. As a practice, we have to strive to lean into our discomfort and only then will we begin to grow and expand with diligence and grace.

I find that for me, avoidance is my most common form of resistance. We all have things we tend to avoid, some of them help us and some of them hurt us. The effort exists in not only avoiding the potentially harmful things, but in resisting avoiding the things that could benefit us. In recent months I have suffered a lapse in my personal meditation practice. I seem to justify it by my hectic schedule of long and odd hours, and my living situation of a full house with no private place to sit. To atone, I find myself practicing asana at the studio religiously, or working to remember to repeat a mantra as I do the dishes or work in the garden. Even though I feel the pull from my pillow each day, strategically positioned at the center of my bedroom, millions of tiny obstacles are keeping me from actually sitting on it. My boyfriend is in the bed snoring, I feel tired or hungry, I have to leave in twenty minutes, my email is more interesting, something needs cleaning, there’s noise outside… these are all reasons I have allowed to deter me from the cushion, even this very morning. Aside from all of the distractions, I am well aware that it is just simply my own resistance that keeps me from sitting. My resistance is the very roots from which these obstacles seem to blossom.

Sometimes, it takes some risks to grow. Taking a seat on my big comfy pillow in front of photographs of my favorite teachers hardly seems like a risk. But to be honest, I feel a sense of self-pressure for a successful sit. I have a hard time looking Muktananda or Buddha in the eye as my mind chatters on about sheer and utter nonsense. For me, and likely others, there is a sense of peace and awareness that I know I am striving for, and perhaps I feel too far away from it to even try. I know in my heart that I shouldn’t judge any of my efforts, and shouldn’t have expectations to have my sits come out a certain way. But I have found myself in a pattern in which I do.

I have heard my teacher explain remedies for such a lapse, and usually it goes along the lines of diving head first into a regular practice. He suggests setting and committing to a time, and practicing for at least 45 minutes early in the morning and a half hour at night. For awhile, getting up and sitting was something I just had to do, but with new circumstances and living situations I fell out of the flow with it, my pattern became interrupted, and now here I am a few months later with practically no practice whatsoever. It seems that sometimes the longer you go without doing something, the harder and harder it is to do it, even if it used to come easily and naturally. Everyone has excuses, and there is always a reason not to practice. But sometimes we are required to make a drastic shift to get things moving back in the right direction.

Often the drift from a healthy pattern or supportive practice feels good at first. Letting go of something that can seem oppressive or nagging might even be freeing, in a sense. But it is important to acknowledge the tendency towards indulgence over the measured effort towards wellness. Cheating on a diet can feel and taste good, but if we eat ice cream sundaes every day it is likely not going to keep us feeling great for long. There is a tendency for us to fall off the wagon, but then hesitate before we try to get back on. Instead of giving up on ourselves and rolling over into the mud, it pays to get up quickly and start running to catch up to that wagon, before it takes off over the horizon.

Konalani Sharanam

The Sanskrit word “Sharanam” can be translated as “to take refuge in.” I have come to learn that everyone can have a sanctuary or refuge where they can find peace, take a few deep breaths, and recharge the batteries, so to speak. For some that sanctuary may be mom’s kitchen, for someone else it could be a good book, or for another tea with a dear friend. For me, I very much feel a sense of peace and refuge when I am on one of the ashrams of my yoga school (Shambhava School of Yoga). This winter I was gratefully asked to offer my service at a teacher training at the Hawaii ashram. I felt that this was an apparent opportunity for me to grow as a yoga teacher, but also a rare chance to serve and share with other like-minded people. This experience of offering my seva (selfless service) enabled me to give back to the place and the practice that I feel helped me become a more centered individual.

It wasn’t difficult to leave snowy Boston, Massachusetts and head 6,000 miles west to the beautiful Konalani Yoga Ashram. Whenever I enter the ashram after being away for some time, I can feel joy rising up into my heart and a loving smile creep across my face. I recall the feelings of a younger me, learning how to instruct yoga with a group of beautiful, enthusiastic individuals. Arriving a bit nervous but open to anything, I found a spiritual practice that I hadn't quite realized I had been seeking. I felt a bit like I had come home in spite of the newness of it all. Now, nearly two years later, I still feel that sense of newness on the ashram. Perhaps it could mean that I am always in a different place in my life, or that my practice keeps moving to a new level… perhaps a little bit of both. I try not to focus too much on what it all means and just work on absorbing as much as I can while I am there. Each time I go is separate and beautiful in its own way. I find excitement in different things, have deeper spiritual experiences, and understand a little bit more about the practice.

Walking down the gravel path of the property in Kona, I notice the soft hues of the afternoon sky and the tinkling sound of Bodhi tree leaves on the breeze as I chant mantra and open my heart. The gentle air feels like silk, just humid enough so you know it’s there, and just warm enough to be comfortable in a skirt and sandals. When a peaceful moment such as this arises, I always feel grateful for Babaji Shambhavananda, my teacher, for having these ashrams for me to experience, and for showing me this way of living. I feel more connected with the rest of the world, and safer within myself as well. The blues, pinks, and purples that meld over my head feel like a part of my very existence. I feel blessed by the opportunity to be here, to serve, to feel like a part of something greater than myself. I wondered how many sunsets in Boston I hadn’t taken the time to appreciate because of the hustle of everyday life.

I feel so blessed to have a place where I can go to keep spiritual work as the central focus of my day and my purpose. At home I teach yoga at different times every day, and my schedule is quite irregular. Like many, I struggle with finding a time to meditate that is consistent, as well as with keeping up with a regular asana practice. The schedule at Babaji’s ashrams is always the same, with meals at 7am, noon, and 5pm. A typical day begins at 5:30 am with chanting and meditation, which concludes right at 7. After breakfast, there’s yoga on an open air deck from 8:30-10. I would often teach or take class, unless I had a special cooking project I was working on. At 10:30 the TT’s (the acronym we affectionately call the teacher trainees) have philosophy class, and during this time I would prepare lunch. After lunch was class and workshop on the yoga deck, and I would assist the program director, Swami Devananda, in guiding the TT’s through posturing, adjustments, and cueing. Class would adjourn at 4:15, and by 4:30 everyone would be changed and in the shrine room for meditation. After our five pm dinner, the last few hours of the day were comprised of free time. Many of us would take advantage of this time by enjoying the sunset, practicing the ukelele or djembe drum, helping in the kitchen by making ghee or a tasty dessert treat, or creating yoga sequences for class assignments. The common areas close at 9:30, and then the TT’s retired to their dorm rooms or the tents up in the mango orchard. Most of us welcomed an early night’s sleep after the fullness of each day, with the anticipated morning meditation fast approaching.

When I started meditating at Konalani, I felt a lot of sheer bliss. There is a spot just to the left as you exit the shrine room where one could stop and admire the Pacific. When I first learned the practice I spent a good five minutes or so in that spot every morning, holding the railing, swaying… taking in the vastness of the early morning sky, and the deep blues of the bright and churning ocean. I sometimes joked that this was the “coming down” spot, where I would pause to process the bliss I experienced before reentering the group and facing the day. But on this recent trip, my sits were far less blissful and much more aware. I felt more compelled to help in the kitchen in the moments just after sitting and before breakfast. A firm push on the heavy door swung me straight into moving meditation, helping to make Kona coffee, slice a papaya, or chant the blessing before the bell was rung. Meals were taken on a covered lanai that overlooks the ocean, and often we would spot whales jumping while we ate.

There’s something about the ashram and working so hard to focus during meditation, as well as the constant physical work and yoga, where I just always feel STARVING. It’s something that I can’t really explain, because in my regular routine I am quite active yet eat only two meals and a few snacks in one day. In my travels to the ashram, I often hear the teacher trainees persist, “I thought I was going to LOSE weight at a Yoga retreat!” Everyone embraces this fact, though, and goes back for seconds and sometimes thirds. Meals are made to nourish both the physical and subtle body (your spiritual energy or chakra system), and it is said that food made on an ashram is filled with Shakti, or divine energy.

There is no experience like cooking for a group of yogis. On the very basic level, the food is vegetarian and deliciously healthy, colorful, and bountiful. On a more spiritual level, the chef is putting care into the preparation, stirring the soup and cultivating love in the heart, or chanting a mantra while chopping vegetables and doing the dishes. I was once told the mantra, “Om aim hrim klim chamundaye viche” has been said to turn the food into nectar. These little customs make the cooking itself a spiritual practice, preparing each meal with love and devotion, with the intent of not only feeding and pleasing those that eat the food, but also bringing peace and happy energy to the table and the rest of the day. I had some powerful experiences of surrender while working in the kitchen. There were many days I was not on time for lunch, or I was unable to make the food look and taste the way I had envisioned it. Part of my own work was to let these attachments go, to make my offering come from a place of love and wholeness rather than worry and uncertainty.

One of the things I love most about the ashram is how much meditative work is possible when not sitting in the shrine… how much focus, mindfulness, and awareness everyone puts into each effort and action. I had some very strong sits while I was there. Practicing with my eyes open, I could sometimes see different layers of lightness in the air, everything softening around me, with the feelings only of peace and the flow of my breath. I think it’s difficult to put into words what exactly I experienced. Some of the most fascinating things happened off of the pillow. Once, as I was adjusting my class while they rested in savasana, I felt the space between my eyebrows fill with an open and warm feeling, as if a million rays of sun were shining out of it. It was totally spontaneous and unexplainable, but nevertheless I had to sit down afterwards. Even as I type it I find the experience hard to believe, but it was one of the most real and tangible feelings I have ever encountered. There were painful moments, too, where I doubted myself, my ideals, and my decisions. Through each experience, though, there was an ability to let things be, a quiet resolve towards stillness and acceptance. And in each, an opportunity to grow.

Now that I am back in Boston and living the lifestyle of what my teacher calls, “an urban yogi," I miss the pre dawn wake up and the satisfaction of whipping up a meal for 13 in an hour and a half. But there is much of my experience that I can take with me, the challenge is putting it into practice in the world in which I live. During moments where the business of the day and responsibilities can overwhelm, I strive to remember the peace and beauty that is only a breath away. This lesson is one of the most valuable that I have learned, and continues to bring me soundness and calm even in the throes of my greatest obstacles. And each afternoon, I try to smile and feel peace and warmth as the sun sets over a chilly New England.