This is one of my favorite photographs. It was taken near the end of my trip to India last year, looking out over the sea in Kerala. My friend Sri had taken me boating on a lake of lotuses on his birthday, and then to an open air temple, for the deity Murugan. We sat on a huge rock overlooking the temple and the sea. The rock was warm from the day's sun, and the sun was now setting. I saw a Sadhu walking around the temple and heard him chanting, "Soham, Shivoham" ("I am that, I am Shiva, pure"). He climbed up the rock and sat near us, and started to practice kapalabhati pranayama ("skull-shining" breath). I felt, in a childlike way, "Wow, this is real—people do really practice yoga in this way I've been taught back in America". I felt touched to my soul, honestly. I closed my eyes, because. And then... it was like I let go of everything, except that there was no conscious letting go. I did not want anything. Everything was... here.
I don't know how long I sat there like that for, probably just a few moments. But it is an experience that I am profoundly grateful for; to have touched a moment of peace like that, even for just a second. And I find, to my massive relief, that I don't need to be in India in a beautiful sunset to touch these moments, even in a tiny way. I practiced yoga asana in the spring sun outside at the weekend for the first time since the winter came, having brought with it so much sorrow. It felt wonderful to be moving outside. As I sat quietly at the end I saw the shadow of daffodils on the patio as the sunlight shone on them, through them. I had a sense of, "I cannot deny this beauty any more than I can deny the singing joy in my soul to see this; and I do not want to!" It was lovely.
So, suffice to say... I wrote recently about the art of finding one's seat (you can think of it as an art or a habit or maybe both). The piece is about finding your seat when you're sitting down or standing on your head and even in everyday life. You can read it, here, and below...
Take Your Seat
More than likely in a yoga class you will have heard the word asana—which is generally translated from the Sanskrit to mean “pose”. So, balasana; child’s pose. Halasana; plow pose. Trikonasana; triangle pose.
And it can also be understood as "seat". I love this translation and find it very helpful both in my physical practice on the mat and in my efforts to live well in the world at large. Here is why.
Most of us bring a lot of stuff to our physical practice. When you find Virabadrasana 1—Warrior 1 pose—there's a lot going on. You’re standing there on your mat, maybe first checking your feet are aligned okay and wishing your mat was less slippy; maybe squaring your hips and letting your tailbone sink towards the ground and noticing how that affects your calves; lifting the chest, bringing your shoulderblades together on your back as you spin your upper arm bones outwards; then you’re refining, softening the gaze, dropping the shoulders… and then you factor in whatever internal narrative happens to be going on—it’s a lot!
And within that, how do we find the balance between effort and ease, readiness and relaxation? For me, often, it's about finding my seat.
We usually begin a class in sukhasana, easy seat (sukha, easy, asana, seat). We are sitting quietly and comfortably, if we're supported properly, and in such a way that breathing comes easily. Like this, we naturally begin to contact a more subtle awareness, simply noticing whatever is going on in the mind and body.
A good teacher will help you find your seat here with careful, calm instructions. A favorite of mine comes from meditation teacher and author Susan Piver. She suggests that while sitting and rooting down, you imagine that a very kind person has their palm held just above the crowd of your head and you want to bring your head up to touch it; very likely your spine will elongate beautifully and your attention will brighten.
The yoga guru B.K.S. Iyengar offers wonderful direction on how to relax into awareness in his book, Light on Life. “In every pose, there should be repose,” he says. “If you keep the back skin of the neck passive and the tongue soft, there is no tension in the brain.” Maybe you’d like to try that now, just closing your eyes and letting your throat and tongue and jaw be really soft. How does that affect how your mind feels? As Mr. Iyengar notes, “The brain can learn only when it begins to relax.”
So, we sit quietly, upright, shoulders relaxed, and there's a certain quiet dignity here.
When I'm caught up in emotions or storylines or simply hard work in a pose later in the class, I find it helpful to come back to this point. “Ah, here we are. In my seat.” Remembering this same sense of peace and rootedness can transform any pose, and take a lot of the drama out of challenging or seemingly fancy postures; can you find your seat in a handstand? It’s certainly interesting to try!
This same sense of coming back to one’s seat can apply to daily life—this is why it makes sense to me that yoga is referred to as a practice. We practice, practice, practice on the mat and maybe, maybe, maybe we notice little shifts and thinking gaps and opportunities to grow and wriggle out of habits and re-center ourselves in our day-to-day. I try to keep returning to my seat—when I'm in conversation, making decisions, tackling the subway—really anytime where I feel my anchor becoming a bit detached.
So I offer this suggestion anytime you’re feeling overwhelmed or caught up in something, to just take a moment, slow down and reconnect with your body. In finding our foundation we establish connection with the earth, and in relaxing and opening, we’re filled with light. Mr. Iyengar offers this beautiful encouragement: “Do not think of yourself as a small, compressed, suffering thing.” he says. “Think of yourself as graceful and expanding, no matter how unlikely it may seem at the time.”
Take your seat. And take it from there.
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