"Keep Calm and Carry On"

Many days since my last post, and very little language about practice in the last month. I just read my friend Craig's latest post, and my friend Josh's post, and now I see a small aperture into explaining the lull.

In nursing this injury for the last month, I have been waiting. The injury has fluctuated between good, better, not-so-good, and downright awful (not necessarily in that order). And I have been staying calm. As if this nursing time were a middle space between then and when-it-heals, I have been floating and treating my body as if it were a rental car — the loaner that I'm using until my car it out of the shop. The calm is not the result of some super zen-like awareness; it's come not from a letting go, but rather from a faith that the injury will heal, a belief that this middle space is temporary, a detachment from the now and an eye on the future, a nagging fear of losing the practice, and an old voice telling me to push through it. This kind of perspective has its merits. Recently, for example, I tripped over the story about the Brits' propaganda, "Keep Calm and Carry On," during WWII. I get it, I can see how it works, I am inspired by it.

But the real challenge is to keep calm, carry on, and be okay with the now. Modify, expand, see the windows that are opening even though it seems like a door is closing, re-evaluate, stand still and listen and breathe — all in the face of anxiety, trepidation, confusion. As much as I have talked about learning what is to be learned in this, I haven't been listening quite closely enough; I've been nodding my head and agreeing — yes, yes, this is an important time of growth — and still yearning for it to go away. I've been calm, I've breathed through some of the frustration...but I'm not breathing enough, not watching closely enough, not listening. I haven't seen the very physical realness of this: the body is not a loaner. It is IT. In some ways, it's a kind of reverse-pratyahara...it's a time to hear the body, not let go of what it is saying.

I am blessed to have two amazing teachers, one of whom gave me a stern talking-to yesterday. She saw me pushing my body through the pain, and she asked me after practice, "What're you doing? And why?" I explained that I was worried that the practice would go away if I modified. She reminded me that the practice will not go away, that practice is a lifelong relationship, and — surprisingly — that revitalization will happen even as the body gets older. She talked about how Ashtanga can hook the type-A practitioner, but that the practice is at its core not type-A. It's brilliant that way. It attracts many, many kinds of people; for the one who competes with herself, who doesn't understand moderation, who is only now negotiating who she is in the practice (rather than what she should be), Ashtanga is alluring and perfect. If one is willing, humility comes instantly. If one is really willing, humility leads to self-nurturing.

My teacher told me that this injury is trying to teach me something. I don't know the whole message, but I do know that part of it is that I have a lot to learn about the undertow of the ego and the intricate layering of the practice. I know that it's possible that I may be thankful for this injury. The practice will be here for you, she assured me. Let go. The most powerful lesson that I have learned this week is that letting go does not mean letting go of the practice; it means moving deeper into it by making space in it. Modifying does not mean limiting; it means opening, caring for the body while it heals, practicing around it like a cocoon around a delicate form of life. What I have seen this week is that the practice is not dark, not subterranean, but actually surprisingly well-lit if we are willing to see and feel our way in.