Why Yin?

I’ve been learning a lot recently about the type of yoga that works for me. The one that feeds me… nourishes me… in the most honest way.

Because, I think, often we can have an idea of the practice we want. My personality is naturally full of fire. Firmly within that element, I find myself constantly trying to achieve the “next big thing”, constantly moving, constantly trying to dive headfirst into new challenges and adventures.

The pause button is never quite within my reach. I can see it (heck, sometimes I can even smell it) and yet somehow my hands can’t seem to feel its comforting surface. One part of my brain will forever be whispering to press down on the brakes whilst the other part, the louder part, gets me to accelerate.

That’s why I’ve always believed that a dynamic practice was the one for me. For 6 months whilst living in Sydney I studied under a Bikram school religiously. 6 days a week I would sweat it out in that studio and push my body from posture to posture, sometimes to the point of feeling physically sick. Even after leaving Bikram I remained in the more “powerful” (I use inverted commas because, really, what is a powerful practice? What defines it?) and faster paced forms of yoga. It suited me, right? Suited my need for speed, my need for the harder, full steam ahead type of living.

The impulsive, never stop type of living that had got me to where I was.

Right?

“You need to experience this to really know what Yin Yoga is all about. After you have experienced it, even just once, you will realize that you have been doing only half of the asana practice.” – Bernie Clark, Yinsights: A Journey Into the Philosophy & Practice of Yin Yoga

… wrong.

Of course, there will always be times when more dynamic, stronger yoga is what my mind and body needs. Lethargic days or perhaps post illness (or, more often than not, too many beers). That’s the beauty of yoga. It adapts around you. And you use it, whatever form of it that might be, as your medicine.

But overall? Overall I’ve come to discover throughout the past year the Yin is the yoga that takes me to that higher level.

Balance is a word thrown around often in yoga. For a long time, I only understood the physical sense of the word. The balance in asana, balance of your body. Your external self balancing on the mat.

Recently it hit me that balance is about so much more than that.

Because yoga? It’s there to balance your internal self. Your spiritual sense, your mind. It equals out the spaces that may need filling and takes you to the mindful state of peace and tranquility that the unevenness of emotional weight can tarnish.

And for me… Yin does that. Yin and its slow, meaningful practice. The long holds, sometimes up to 10 minutes, where you simply have to sink into the moment and allow yourself to lift out of your physical self. Drift through the discomfort and stretch in a way that releases you. Grounds you. The fixing to the floor, the connection. The never thinking about “what next”. Learning to check in all areas of your body and let time slip like silk through your fingertips. Like sand floating on the edge of a breeze.

When I’m practicing Yin, I’m not thinking about speeding up. All I can think of is slowing down. My brain no longer crashes. It simply… is. And I simply… am.

Simple. Simple. Simple.

I come away from Yin feeling lighter and, yet, so very accomplished. Because whilst we may call Yin a passive practice, it is by no means any lesser of one. If anything, Yin has taught me the true meaning of yoga.

The meaning that goes beyond the Asana and deeper into the Pranayama. It teaches us to show Bhakti (devotion) and Karuna (compassion) to ourselves, our bodies.

Which, ultimately, allows us to show that same devotion and compassion to others, doesn’t it?

It’s shown me that yoga isn’t about the deepest backbend or achieving full splits… it’s about the journey that gets you there.

It’s about the process.

The moments leading up to it.

Each and every beautiful one.

And to me? That’s what powerful truly means.

“The breath flows in and just before it turns to flow out,

there is a flash of pure joy — life is renewed.

Awaken into that.

As the breath is released and flows out,

there is a pulse as it turns to flow in.

In that turn, you are empty.

Enter that emptiness as the source of all life.”

— The Radiance Sutras

It’s not bad, it’s just different.

A few days ago, a friend messaged me saying she needed some yoga encouragement after what she described as a “bad class”. One that had left her feeling demotivated, disappointed and just a bit downtrodden.

My heart wept for her immediately. Not only because I hated the thought of my beautiful friend feeling so low, but because that is the exact opposite of how a yoga class should make you feel.

I probed a little further.

“What did you think was so bad about it?”

She told me that the class (which had been advertised as beginner) was only directed at the most advanced in the class, with headstands and inversions making her feel totally out of her depth.

I could go on here about how wrong it is for a teacher to make a student feel so isolated and how yoga shouldn’t be about whether or not you can hang around in the perfect headstand (a blog for another day!)… but the thing is, there’s something far deeper going on here. Something we (me, you, my friend) need to master first of all.

It’s that notion of what is a good vs bad practice.

And it’s something that has taken me a while to understand. Something that developed as my understanding of what yoga truly is grew. The idea that it is something far beyond the asana. An opportunity to use the practice to understand and connect with your body and mind.

Is it a bad practice just because you can’t get into crow pose? Is it a bad practice because your forward fold isn’t sinking in the way it used to? Is it a bad practice because monkey brain is getting in the way of your savasana?

Or is it a sign to check in and recognise the areas of your body that need nourishment? The areas you might not have noticed? Or the ones that you just took for granted, accepted, brushed under the carpet?

Because it isn’t bad, is it? It’s just different. The same as every day is different… from morning to night, no two moments will ever be the same. So why should your practice be any different?

There are so many reasons we might come into barriers during a practice. Stress, tiredness, diet, fear, aches, pains, ailments. All problems that in our fast-paced, constantly moving life we tend to “make do” with. We take for granted that we’re never going to feel “quite right”. We get used to feeling exhausted. We tend not to question the bubbling feelings of anxiety because “everyone feels like that.”

But what if we used our time on the mat to identify these issues? To press in on them and start paying attention? Took that attention off the mat to make subtle changes in our day to eradicate them?

And what if that awareness became a daily “checking in” morning routine? If it could be used to start your day in the best possible way?

Man. That would be pretty great, wouldn’t it?

Is paying attention the key?

I find myself questioning a lot. Too much, maybe. I question the root of my battle with anxiety and depressive episodes. I question how I can balance my longing to be free against the notion of what freedom really is. I question my writing and what I want to achieve from it.

I question everything. I guess that’s what this blog is, really.

And I think that constant hunting out of the answer to all these questions is precisely that… a need to find that bigger answer. The one lingering in the corner of the room, tapping you on the shoulder and following your every movement.

How do I live my life to its fullest?

A dear friend and I talk about these questions almost every day. We share reflections on the week gone, help one another work our way through the existential topics that frame our very being.

Recently, with reference to a recent blog post where I spoke about throwing myself headfirst and giving it my all, she said:

“I wonder if your natural tendency, what comes easiest to you, is to be active, pushing, striving it’s quite a fierce approach… so what about the wildness in softening, letting go, grounding, getting present?”

It’s something I’d never considered. Not on a deep level, anyway. Whilst I strive for a mindful life I’d be lying if I said it was a path that came easily. If at all.

I’m fiery by character. A textbook Sagittarius, my passions are intense and my life tends to run on impulses. I follow my gut, always, and fly through every experience as if on hot coals. A moment wasted is a moment lost.

And mostly, it’s a trait that has served me well. That desire compelled me to leave my comfort zone and take on many of the life changing experiences I pride myself on. It helped me get the jobs I have done and grab hold of my achievements.

But it also made me slip through them at full speed; a conveyor belt continuously taking me to the next destination.

Because when I look back, I can’t help but wonder… how different would things have been had I found the space inside me to press down on the brakes and ground myself?

To be in that moment, to pay attention to it, rather than tying up my laces ready for the next step?

I’ve always told myself that my inability to stop is simply a manifestation of my urge to live every second out of life. The thought of reaching the end of my life and feeling any regret for the opportunities missed fills me with a debilitating terror. I want to be able to tell of my adventure, to hold it close to my chest and know that I made every moment count.

And yet… am I really feeling those moments?

Mary Oliver puts it beautifully:

“Attention without feeling, I began to learn, is only a report. An openness – an empathy – was necessary if the attention was to matter.”

Is this, then, the answer?

Perhaps the key is to surrender to a gentler way of life. To stop comparing this place I find myself in to the past and let go of my expectations for the future. To let the water carry me. Let it quench my thirst.

As if on cue, I stumbled across this quote today from the global spiritual leader Thich Nhat Hanh:

“To dwell in the here and now does not mean you never think about the past or responsibly plan for the future. The idea is simply not to allow yourself to get lost in regrets about the past or worries about the future. If you are firmly grounded in the present moment, the past can be an object of inquiry, the object of your mindfulness and concentration. You can attain many insights by looking into the past. But you are still grounded in the present moment.”

It seems so obvious. But I’ve got 25 years of behaviour to unthread to make it a reality.

Because to truly live in the moment… to appreciate being and to show up to it in an open way… it means letting go of the control.

And that is my ultimate challenge.

But recognising that? Acknowledging it?

At least that journey has finally begun.

Wild and free.

I’ve struggled a lot with the transition between “being away” and “being back.” Here and there. Back and forth. The difference between days spent wandering white sand beaches blissfully disconnected from expectations and those laced in routine and demand. Which one provided more meaning. Which one offered a version of my true self.

It’s a struggle I dip in and out of. When my current path is paved with achievements and fulfilment, that struggle drifts away. I am present and so very at peace with this life I have built.

And yet other times that question mark seems to trace its silhouette back in glaring focus. All too quickly the walls around me shoot further and further up, encasing me in panic and confusion. When life takes an unexpected turn I wasn’t quite prepared for. When mindful living trips into monotony.

It’s coming up to a year since I’ve been home. And for a while now I’ve stayed on the lighter side of the gate. I’ve been able to embrace the beautiful relationships “being back” has brought me and feel true joy in the simple pleasures of time spent in my hometown. I wake up inspired by what my work day may hold and excited about the places the next few months will take me.

Because, maybe, I can still find that wild freedom that made me feel so alive in that sacred time “being away”?

Maybe, being wild and free doesn’t have to be jumping out of planes and diving into the ocean depths?

Maybe, being wild and free doesn’t have to be endless evenings spent beer in hand dancing under the stars?

Maybe, being wild and free doesn’t have to be snap decisions to fly to a destination of your choice with nothing but your backpack and a sense of adventure?

I’m beginning to wonder whether being wild and free can also grow in the thrill of throwing yourself headfirst into something new, simply because. Of giving it your all, regardless of the end result. Or perhaps it’s there when you push away the barriers and let another in. When you don’t even think about the risk, weighing up the pros and cons, holding yourself back because it’s “easier that way.” Letting time and life do their thing and see where it takes you, for the better or worse. Could it be trusting the process? Is it learning to love yourself in a way that means everything makes sense, just a little more?

What if it’s saying yes rather than no?

What if it’s saying goodbye to fear, in every aspect of life?

The pang of what else is out there will forever walk beside me. Curiosity follows in my shadow… and that’s okay. Thirst for life and living the hell out of it is a quality I never want to let go of.

But doing that? Embracing that quality?

It exists within me, in every moment regardless of where or how that moment comes into light.

It’s here. And it always will be.

“The best thing you can possibly do with your life is to tackle the motherfucking shit out of it.” – Cheryl Strayed.

Thinking out loud #2

The big cup of coffee in bed every morning. The cold beer sitting on the terrace. The taste of mango, avocado and tomatoes on olive bread and the reassuring feel of pen to paper as  I pour my world out to you, drip by drip. These are the things that make me feel at home. These are the moments I can simply be. And whilst worry has crept back trying to steer me out of this path of joy into one of safety, I’ve fought back. Told the dark force that, this time, it won’t win. I will. From now on.

“Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.”

Letting go of the shackles. Putting myself in the face of excitement.

Trusting the process. Trusting it all.

Comfortable with being uncomfortable.

Last week I attended my first Buddhist group. I didn’t know what to expect, unsurprisingly. I just knew it was an area of my life I wanted to explore a little further with the hope that, maybe, it would help me understand *things* that little further.

Maybe.

I have also been desperate to establish a meditation practice to sit alongside my yoga one. Because, to me, they go hand in hand. And I can’t help but think that in that joint practice sits the key to a mindful life.

And not just talking about it. Not just writing about it. Actually living it.

The group started with some chanting. Fine, no problem. I’m a-ok with chanting from my yoga. I love the energy of it.

But then it came to the next bit and the words I had no idea would fill me with such dread.

“So now we’ll take 30 minutes of silent meditation.”

That’s right. I’d come to a Buddhist group with the sole purpose of meditating and yet the actual act of sitting cross legged with my eyes shut for longer than a few breaths made me a nervous wreck.

I know. I didn’t understand it either.

But here’s the thing. The thought of being in that silent space without any stimulants panicked me. I couldn’t help but think “Jesus, I could be using my time SO much more effectively right now” and even “well if I count X breaths in and out at a speed of Y then I should reach the 30 minute mark at Z.”

For the life of me I could not imagine how I would be able to convince my mind to take a step back for that time without it running circles around every topic under the sun.

It was anything but comfortable to me. My shoulder was causing me grief having pulled it the night before and my ankle was sitting at a funny angle. My neck felt stiff. My toes started to go dead.

So. Many. Different. Feelings. And. Sensations.

And that was all within the first 30 seconds.

It was exhausting.

Then this quiet voice in my ear.

“You’re pushing your attention on all these things because you’re scared to be alone with your own thoughts.”

And it was true. Being totally alone in the silence of my own mind terrified me. It’s for that precise reason I fall asleep with Netflix playing. Why when I find myself in a situation where I can’t nod off either with laptop at my side or a book in my hand I don’t sleep and instead the insomnia kicks in.

That huge, empty, vastness… it panics me. The nothingness? I avoid it at all costs.

Yet… it doesn’t have to be a “nothingness”, does it? Is that not the whole point of meditation? That in the “nothingness” we are able to find “something”?

“When your attention moves into the Now, there is an alertness. It is as if you were waking up from a dream, the dream of thought, the dream of past and future. Such clarity, such simplicity. No room for problem-making. Just this moment as it is.” – Eckhart Tolle

So I forced myself to be with it. To spinal breathe through the chakras and take note of the uncomfortable aches and then move on. To let my mind try to wander but trust that it would find its way back.

To be comfortable with being uncomfortable.

It wasn’t easy. I can’t sit here and pretend that this sudden epiphany instantly made me a master of the big M.

But it was a process I stuck with. That I committed to.

It’s a concept I’m trying to bring into my daily life. That sense of living not in despite of any stress, difficulties or simply awkwardness… but within it. Trying not to fight it, but understand that you will grow from it.

Because, surely, if we stopped resisting the inevitable, worrying about what “could” be and instead accepted each passing moment as it was… passing, fleeting… then surely everything would be a hell of a lot easier?

Surely we would understand *things* that little further?