How do you feel when someone says, admiringly, that you are a strong person? For me, it’s usually a mixture of emotions. I feel proud, because I know that generally strength is considered a “good” quality. And when I’m going through tough times, part of me wants to say, “But it’s hard. I don’t find it easy. Often I feel like I’m going to collapse. Sometimes I do.” So that’s what I’d like to talk about with you today: What it means to be strong.
One of the most helpful pieces of advice I’ve learned in my yoga studies is from Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. It is, “Sthira sukham asanam”, and you can translate it from the Sanskrit to mean, “Your asana practice should be strong and sweet; a balance of effort and ease.” To move in a yogic state (a state of union) is to embody both of these things simultaneously.
More than likely you’ve taken a class where you’re tired or you’ve felt creaky, but you’ve muscled-through it—you’ve used your body’s strength to pull you through the class like an ox with a cart—and more than likely you’ve felt exhausted by the end of it. And you’ve probably also had those beautiful experiences where your mind is with your breath and your body and your heart, and your whole being feels part of something altogether wider. And those are the times when you magically float up into a headstand, or you jump to the front of the mat with grace.
This wisdom applies to our hearts, and our health in everyday life, too. And applied to the day to day, I take this verse to mean, be strong and stay soft. Keep your heart open. As anyone who has worked with grief or heartbreak can tell you, it can feel murderously difficult to even contemplate doing this—you feel wounded, and your heart feels so incredibly soft and vulnerable. We may have the instinct to cover it up, to tamp it down as fast as possible.
At times like this, a lot of us will have turned to Buddhist texts like Pema Chodron’s When Things Fall Apart. Thinking, “Ah, yes! Things are falling apart! Now what do I do?” And her suggestions at first can seem bracing to say the least. In the lineage of Shambhala Buddhism, there’s a sense that our greatest courage is to let our heart be broken open; to accept it, to be curious about it, to feel the great torrents of love moving through us, and relax.
How does this look in real life? Well, I went on a course on Buddhist meditation and love at New York’s Shambhala Center, led by Susan Piver, author of the beautiful book, The Wisdom of a Broken Heart, and Lodro Rinzler, who wrote Walk Like a Buddha. There was much valuable discussion on the quality of leaning in to whatever you may be feeling, especially when it’s uncomfortable.
Lodro Rinzler remembered a time when he was heartbroken. There was one particular evening, he said, when his head was just swimming with questions and stories, and he felt in so much pain and completely overwhelmed. In the end, he chose to lay down on the sofa with his hand on his heart, and just listen.
I was deeply moved by this story, and recognised so much truth in it, from my own experience. It is scary to be with yourself. Why would you want to tune into the voices of sadness or anger or fear? (Or all three! Woohoo!). Well. In my own experience, yes, it can feel intense to do this. To put your hand on your heart, literally or figuratively, and listen. But there is also a kind of relief that comes with it, and certainly a deep peace of sorts.
It’s as if when you surrender to what’s real inside you, those feelings make a surrender of sorts, too—like they no longer need to be tugging at your coat, or wailing for your attention. There may still be tears and deep, deep pain, but it’s a different kind of feeling to when you’re wrestling, and desperately trying to push something away.
Equally, in your everyday existence, there are times when you need to get on with your work, or see friends, or do whatever it is you need to do. And a different kind of strength comes into play here. The strength of putting one foot in front of the other, the strength of letting yourself laugh and have fun without feeling weird or bad about it, the strength to be present.
Sthira sukham asanam. You’ve got this. It is hard, but it’s nothing that’s not already a part of you. For those of you working with your strength and softness—which, really, is all of us—I salute you.
One of the most helpful pieces of advice I’ve learned in my yoga studies is from Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. It is, “Sthira sukham asanam”, and you can translate it from the Sanskrit to mean, “Your asana practice should be strong and sweet; a balance of effort and ease.” To move in a yogic state (a state of union) is to embody both of these things simultaneously.
More than likely you’ve taken a class where you’re tired or you’ve felt creaky, but you’ve muscled-through it—you’ve used your body’s strength to pull you through the class like an ox with a cart—and more than likely you’ve felt exhausted by the end of it. And you’ve probably also had those beautiful experiences where your mind is with your breath and your body and your heart, and your whole being feels part of something altogether wider. And those are the times when you magically float up into a headstand, or you jump to the front of the mat with grace.
This wisdom applies to our hearts, and our health in everyday life, too. And applied to the day to day, I take this verse to mean, be strong and stay soft. Keep your heart open. As anyone who has worked with grief or heartbreak can tell you, it can feel murderously difficult to even contemplate doing this—you feel wounded, and your heart feels so incredibly soft and vulnerable. We may have the instinct to cover it up, to tamp it down as fast as possible.
At times like this, a lot of us will have turned to Buddhist texts like Pema Chodron’s When Things Fall Apart. Thinking, “Ah, yes! Things are falling apart! Now what do I do?” And her suggestions at first can seem bracing to say the least. In the lineage of Shambhala Buddhism, there’s a sense that our greatest courage is to let our heart be broken open; to accept it, to be curious about it, to feel the great torrents of love moving through us, and relax.
How does this look in real life? Well, I went on a course on Buddhist meditation and love at New York’s Shambhala Center, led by Susan Piver, author of the beautiful book, The Wisdom of a Broken Heart, and Lodro Rinzler, who wrote Walk Like a Buddha. There was much valuable discussion on the quality of leaning in to whatever you may be feeling, especially when it’s uncomfortable.
Lodro Rinzler remembered a time when he was heartbroken. There was one particular evening, he said, when his head was just swimming with questions and stories, and he felt in so much pain and completely overwhelmed. In the end, he chose to lay down on the sofa with his hand on his heart, and just listen.
I was deeply moved by this story, and recognised so much truth in it, from my own experience. It is scary to be with yourself. Why would you want to tune into the voices of sadness or anger or fear? (Or all three! Woohoo!). Well. In my own experience, yes, it can feel intense to do this. To put your hand on your heart, literally or figuratively, and listen. But there is also a kind of relief that comes with it, and certainly a deep peace of sorts.
It’s as if when you surrender to what’s real inside you, those feelings make a surrender of sorts, too—like they no longer need to be tugging at your coat, or wailing for your attention. There may still be tears and deep, deep pain, but it’s a different kind of feeling to when you’re wrestling, and desperately trying to push something away.
Equally, in your everyday existence, there are times when you need to get on with your work, or see friends, or do whatever it is you need to do. And a different kind of strength comes into play here. The strength of putting one foot in front of the other, the strength of letting yourself laugh and have fun without feeling weird or bad about it, the strength to be present.
Sthira sukham asanam. You’ve got this. It is hard, but it’s nothing that’s not already a part of you. For those of you working with your strength and softness—which, really, is all of us—I salute you.
No comments:
Post a Comment