The Lenten Journey

I attended Ash Wednesday services today for the first time in two years. It has been well over eighteen months since I've had any desire to participate in a Christian worship service and the only time I've entered a church in that period has been to attend a funeral.

Considering that before I left the church a year and a half ago I was serving as the Abbess of a lay Benedictine community and had even contemplated ordination and seminary for awhile, it has been a long time to be away, and yet I don't regret my absence. My reasons for leaving the church are complicated and even though I don't think this is the place to discuss them in detail, I'm not sure I could anyway. I still don't completely understand what happened when I realized that the teachings of the church were no longer helping me understand how God was working in my life.

I'm not really sure what compelled me to attend today. I woke up, knowing that today was Ash Wednesday, and this seemed of the utmost significance. Of all the seasons of the church liturgical year, Lent is the one that has always meant the most to me. Lent is the season in which I have often felt closest to God. Lent is, in many ways, the reason I stayed in the church for as long as I did.

In my studies of the yoga tradition, although there is a great deal of attention paid to ethical principles, and the yamas and niyamas play a prominent role, "sin" is not a word you will find in the yoga sutras. I have often wondered if this is one place where the Christian path deviates from the yoga path, and I have to admit it is more pleasant to think of oneself as without sin than to contemplate the words of the psalmist, who says: "Indeed, I have been wicked from my birth, a sinner from my mother's womb."

So, it might seem a little odd that I, a person who truly believes that all of us are, deep down, good and pure and perfect, would be drawn to a penitential season like Lent. Despite this belief, I nevertheless am brought up short by phrases in the Litany of Penitence. Recited in Ash Wednesday services like the one I attended today, these phrases include such things as: 

We have not loved You with our whole heart, and mind, and strength.
We have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.
We have not forgiven others, as we have been forgiven. 

Despite my firm conviction that you and I are, each of us, at our core, perfect, I also know that because I am human, it impossible to, every moment, love God with my whole heart, mind and soul; to love my neighbors, every day, as myself; to forgive others, especially when they don't forgive me.

The Litany goes on, bringing up those things that most of us would rather not admit: 

We confess to You our envy of those more fortunate than ourselves;
We confess our intemperate love of worldly goods and comforts;
Our uncharitable thoughts toward our neighbors;
Our prejudice and contempt toward those who differ from us;
Our waste and pollution of Your creation, and our lack of concern for those who come after us. 

I think it is important to acknowledge the truth that all of us have had moments, in the past year, when one or more of these statements described the state of our own hearts. It is good to confess these things. It is good to admit that we are, in fact, not perfect, but to also have faith that, in the end, we will be forgiven for our failings.

Every year during the Lenten season, whether I observe it or not, big movements happen in my spiritual life. Last year during Lent I made the decision to pursue yoga teacher training and to focus on learning how to lead Kirtan chanting. Both of these, especially the Kirtan, have had a profound impact on my spiritual life. I have, for the first time, become completely open about the devotion and love for God I have always held inside my heart. Despite the fact that neither yoga nor Kirtan come from the Christian tradition, I think that last year's Lenten journey led me to exactly the right place God wanted me to be.

This year, I am curious to see what Lent will bring, but I know there is no way of predicting what awaits me. My task is simple: to keep walking, be disciplined about my practice, and to pay attention.

Namaste.

A Chant for Protection

Last week, we began our Kirtan Circle with a chant to Ganesha that I learned from my teacher, David Newman. David, also known as Durga Das, which means "Servant to the Divine Mother," is shown in the video above leading a group in the chanting of this same mantra, "Jai Ganesha." 

Ganesha, the elephant-headed God of hinduism, embodies the quality of the divine that can remove obstacles and is an excellent choice for embarking on any new endeavor--such as launching a new Kirtan circle. In the days following the first meeting of our new Kirtan chanting group, I realized how even more appropriate this particular mantra was for the days our world was living through. The sanskrit text for this chant is:

   Jai Ganesha! Jai Ganesha! Jai Ganesha Pahiman
   Sri Ganesha! Sri Ganesha! Sri Ganesha Rakshamam
   Gung Ganapataye Namo Namah 

And the meaning, in English, is roughly: 

    Hail Ganesha, the One who saves us.
    Venerable Ganesha, the One who protects us.
    I bow in reverence to the name Ganapati, the name of Ganesha. 

In this period of great upheaval and turmoil in the world, it is good to have the opportunity to sing with others to God. It is good, and comforting, to seek safety and protection in the divine that is always with us. Although the chants in traditional Kirtan are made to Hindu deities and the religion could not be more foreign to me, I have been greatly moved by the practice of Kirtan and no longer doubt the power of this particular form of worship.

Although Kirtan does not come from the tradition I was raised in, and I still know very little about it, I have found that the practice speaks directly to my heart, bypassing my brain and making it unnecesary to fully understand the stories or theology behind the songs. God has many faces and many names and, in the final analysis, my own beliefs are only a vague approximation of the true ultimate reality that is beyond any human comprehension. Keeping this in mind has been a great help as I have found myself swept away by this powerful devotional practice from a tradition not my own.

Tonight we meet again for Kirtan and we will offer our chant to Ganesha, asking for God's protection and grace, for ourselves and for all around the world who are living through these tumultuous times.

Peace be with you,

Raima

Kirtan Circle Launches

The last few weeks have brought a sharply increased level of activity in my yoga teacher training activities. I would like to have written more blog posts about all these activities, but this flurry of stuff has really kept me busy. Since the start of the year, I have been apprenticing in a beginner's class, have attended two weekend intensive sessions and, last but definitely not least, have prepared and am ready to launch my project: Sun & Moon Yoga Studio's first Kirtan Circle.

As readers of this blog know, I am passionate about Bhakti yoga, which involves a form of devotional chant known as Kirtan. I knew, even before I began yoga teacher training, that I wanted to share this powerful practice with others. Like everything in yoga, talking or writing about a yoga practice is no substitute for actual doing it, so I have been strongly motivated to find a way to share what I know about this practice and give others the opportunity to experience it.

All Sun & Moon teacher trainees are required to do a project as part of the training, so I chose to develop a Kirtan Circle where people who know nothing about devotional chant can come and try it out. Since early January, I have met with a small group of interested yogis at the studio, teaching them what I have learned in the few years I have been practicing Kirtan. We have met every week that we can, learning chants, singing together and having a wonderful time.

Although I knew, and could sing, many chants that I had learned "by heart," so to speak, I quickly realized that I needed to find a way to bring instrumental accompaniment into the mix. Our practice group chanted to CDs and MP3 files for awhile, and I slowly began to pick out some of the tunes on my portable keyboard. Others brought drums and shakers and bells and before too long, we were singing "Jai Ganesha" and "Hare Krishna" without even having to turn on a CD player.

This weekend we are ready to open our practice to all interested participants. Our first Kirtan Circle will occur Saturday, February 19, 2011 at 5:30 pm. The Sun & Moon studio has been wonderfully supportive of this project, and has listed our Kirtan Circle dates on the website where you can find directions to the studio. If you are close by and can join us, please do. We would love to chant with you!


Namaste

Nearly-Wordless Wednesday

 Ice Storm

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Civility is Just the Beginning

This past week following the shootings in Tucson and attempted assassination of a member of Congress, a great deal of commentary has been broadcast by the media calling for more civility in our discussions with one another. In my view, civility is just a first step. We need to strive for so much more than mere civility in our dealings with one another. 

We need to strive for kindness and treating each other with compassion. Violence is never justified, and the weapons used in violent attacks on one another are sometimes physical, but can also be verbal.

This week, my yoga studio posted Judith Lasater's four-sentence definition and description of "ahimsa," one of the niyamas, or daily practices, put forth in the yoga sutras: 

"Ahimsa, usually translated as 'nonviolence.' This refers not only to physical violence, but also to the violence of words or thoughts. What we think about ourselves or others can be as powerful as any physical attempt to harm. To practice ahimsa is to be constantly vigilant, to observe ourselves in interaction with others and to notice our thoughts and intentions."

The combination of the yamas, or ethical practices, and the niyamas form, according to Stephen Cope, author of Yoga and the Quest for the True Self, the "eternal religion, because they represent the core practices of most religious systems." 

Advocating for nonviolence in "thought, word and deed" is not unique to the practice of yoga, but should be a principle that all in a civilized society strive to live by.

Let us treat each other as we would like to be treated. Let us choose our words with kindness, always striving to do no harm when we act or speak. Let us practice ahimsa in all that we do, remembering that when we say to each other "Namaste," we are not just acknowledging, but bowing to, the core divinity within each person.  

Namaste

The Courage to Teach

Yesterday, I began the apprenticeship portion of yoga teacher training by sitting in, along with several of my fellow teacher-trainees, on a beginner-level yoga class. I sat up along the wall, by the door, scribbling copious notes into my notebook, relieved that I had two fellow trainees to sit there with me. I took a lot of notes and tried to be inconspicuous and I was further relieved when the students in the class began, one by one, to close their eyes and turn inward to follow their own process. Very quickly it seemed that they forgot we were even there--which was just fine with me!

I had been quite nervous about apprenticing, counting down the days until we started, and the uneasiness surprised me very much. There have been a number of things about this training program that have generated a case of the jitters for me, but coming into a class of beginners to be introduced as one who was actually deliberating seeking to teach yoga really threw me for a loop. 

Why would this particular part of the training program be so nerve-wracking? I asked myself this question a number of times. After all, I was a teacher for over two decades (in one of my previous lives, and about a subject that is very different from yoga: chemistry!) so I can envision myself as a teacher. I assumed, at first, that the nervousness was about the usual sense of not being quite as athletically-accomplished as I used to think a yoga teacher must be.

This is part of it, and the thought of having to demonstrate a pose in front of a group can easily account for at least some of the fear. I also remember, though, that there was a great deal of fear involved in teaching chemistry--and not only for the students, many of whom are afraid of the subject, worried about their grades, fearful of the math they often felt they didn't understand, and on and on. Fear runs both ways in the classroom: teachers are often quite fearful and this fear can amplify the student's fears. 

I was no different than most teachers and always felt nervous and, yes, afraid on the first day of class. I never got over the first-day jitters when I was teaching chemistry, even though I was very confident about my knowledge of the material. Those first-day jitters became every-day jitters whenever I taught one of the large lecture courses. It's scary to walk to the front of a room filled with two, three or four hundred people, especially people who mostly don't want to be there and who sometimes see you as a barrier between themselves and where they want to be (like medical school!)

So, thinking about being a yoga teacher has reminded me of what it means to be a teacher, period, and I realize that I am continuing a process begun long ago when I first began exploring what Parker Palmer calls the "inner landscape of a teacher's life." This is a phrase from Parker's wonderful book The Courage to Teach, and I benefited greatly both from the book and from Parker himself as he led me and hundreds of other teachers through workshops and retreats designed to help us find the courage to teach and keep teaching.

Now, as I look through this book, which I have not opened for at least ten years, I see so many things that seem they might have at least a little to do with how a Chemistry professor could start in the lab and lecture hall and end up on a yoga mat. Parker says, "Teaching holds a mirror to the soul," and "Knowing myself is as crucial to good teaching as knowing my students and my subject." Ideas like these encouraged me to consider the possibility that knowing myself better, such as through the practice of yoga, was good not only for me but for my students. It's probably no accident that I began the study of yoga about the time I first encountered Parker and his ideas.

Parker's ideas were always quite unique among those I engaged with in academia and I was thrilled to recently learn that he is continuing his work at the Center for Courage and Renewal. The programs at the center are mostly aimed at classroom teachers for academic subjects, since there is so little support in the academy for the idea that "knowing oneself" can have anything to do with good teaching. Most yoga teachers would never question this truth, but until I opened up Parker's book this week, I had managed to suppress the memory that it was, and is, a completely foreign idea in most universities and colleges.

Parker writes a lot, and eloquently, about the academic bias that says "objective facts are regarded as pure, while subjective feelings are suspect and sullied." This is true in all academic subjects, but is nearly an article of faith in the physical sciences, which was my subject. As Parker has observed, in this type of culture, the self is not the source within but, somehow, dangerous and truth-obscuring. In this culture, subjective feelings are not a potential source of guidance but obstacles to be overcome. In this culture, the truth is "out there," while "in here" all we can hope to find are our muddled, confused thoughts--which, of course, we need a teacher to help us sort through.

So, I think I will read some more of Parker's book, remembering just how much courage it took to teach science for so many decades, and just how it was that I tried to stay true to the principle of "know thyself" that he taught to us--and, what a privilege it is going to be to be a teacher again. 

Namaste

Hearts and Hands and Voices

As we continued with our studies of the chakras this month, making our way from chakra 4, the heart center, through chakra 5, located in the throat, and on toward chakra 6 (the "third eye") and chakra 7 (the "crown chakra"), an old hymn started running through my mind. 

I'll get back to that hymn later, but I need, first, to confess that I never knew, until now, that the hands are also associated with chakra 4. I'm not sure why it's taken me twenty years of yoga study to know that while chakra 4, the heart center, is obviously centered near the middle of the chest, the hands (and shoulders and arms) are also considered part of chakra 4. As we moved toward chakra 5, which obviously is associated with voice, I became very confused because, as a writer, my voice is often expressed with my hands. 

I do, of course, talk in the normal way, using my vocal chords and mouth, but I almost always have to write something out before I know what my heart is saying to me. And I am often trying to find the  right voice for a character, or the right voice to use for an article I'm writing. I rejoiced, like all writers do, when I felt I had found "my voice" as a writer, and the words began to flow easily and without effort. I, therefore, have had a very hard time separating my heart, my hands and my voice. I didn't know whether it was even possible for me to differentiate these two important energy centers.

And then this hymn started playing in my head. Over and over and over. It's a very old Christian hymn, written around 1636 by a German clergyman, Martin Rinckart, just as the plague descended on his town, eventually killing upwards of 8000 people there. 

Rinckart obviously wrote the words of this hymn in German, but the best-known English translation goes like this:

  Now thank we all our God, with heart and hands and voices,
  Who wondrous things hath done, in whom his world rejoices,
  Who from our mother's arms hath blessed us on our way
  With countless gifts of love, and still is ours today. 

I've always associated this hymn with the Mayflower pilgrims since, as children, we often sang it in church or Sunday School around Thanksgiving Day. Although it is clearly a song of thankfulness, I have always picked up on a strain of underlying suffering, which made sense, knowing that the pilgrims had just made it through a very tough year and were facing another harsh winter. Now, knowing the situation that the author himself was in, trying to minister to a flock that was suffering greatly, called on to bury thousands of his parishioners, I now see that there is much, much more to the story behind this hymn.

Despite the somewhat dated language (the use of words like "hath" and the sometimes-jarring reference to God using a male pronoun), I love this hymn, and not just because I've been singing it since childhood. Martin Rinckert's hymn is a hymn of devotion, so by singing it I can practice bhakti yoga, the yoga of devotion. 

I also love how Rinckart's hymn reminds me that my act of devotion can be offered up not just with my voice, but also with my heart as well as with my hands. I love the reminder that true thankfulness and gratitude comes by offering our heart and a hand to another, that it is often in the doing for others that we most deeply experience true gratitude. I love the deep lesson of this text that when we are truly thankful, the heart, hands and voice really cannot be separated.

Namate.