Back in April, I had the opportunity to assist Stacey Rosenberg at the graduation ceremony for her most recent Teacher Training. It was a powerful and moving moment, watching her students – some of whom are friends, some of whom I was meeting for the first time – step across the threshold and more fully into the seat of the teacher. Some of those graduating are already teaching (some yoga, one dance, one elementary school), some are actively seeking to teach yoga, and some were just looking to deepen their yoga practices. It was a striking thing, because regardless of whether they go on to serve their communities by teaching yoga or some other discipline, or become certified Anusara teachers, or never teach yoga at all, their commitment and adikara – their studentship, was inspiring. Stacey’s teacher training involved one weekend a month for six months and hefty homework assignments. These students had just finished a lot of work, which was reason enough to celebrate.
In watching as the students were handed their certificates by Stacey and anointed with kumkum powder from Chidambaram and water from Ganga-Ma by Hareesh Wallis, I was struck most, I think, by those new teachers who are uncertain if they are going to actively pursue teaching. It is a striking statement of commitment to possibility, to commit the time and resources these students committed, while not knowing for certain that one wants to teach. It is, I think, an especially beautiful expression of opening to grace, to work hard to prepare for the unknown. The idea of preparing for the unknown is one which has very much dominated my life for the first four months of the year, as I was training for a trek in Nepal. From past experience, I know that all of the physical training one can do at sea level translates very differently above 8,000 feet, and that the mountains often have their own plans for us.
Macchupuchare
Two years ago, a friend was living in Nepal doing research. She invited me to visit her and I took her up on her offer. I was there for two weeks, visiting Kathmandu and its environs and spending seven or so days in the mountains, in the Annapurna range around Jomsom. I have always loved mountains, and to visit the Himalayas – The Mountains – is a singular experience.
My first sight of the mountains, from Pokhara at the foot of the Annapurna range, was of Macchupuchare. The sight of Fishtail Mountain, as it is known, brought tears to my eyes. Over the coming week, each day brought new sights and new mountains. Dhualagiri, a lesser trekked range to the west, loomed as the reminder of possibility.
Nilgiri
I spent an hour contemplating Nilgiri from the roof of my lodge in Kagbeni, and felt my spirit soar in a way it had never before soared. And the Annapurna range stood as the living testament to the experience of purnatva – fullness – which so defined my time in Nepal (although Annapurna is usually poetically translated as “Mother of the Harvest,” it literally translates as “full of grain.”)
Since leaving Nepal two years ago, I knew I must go back, must see those mountains one more time. And so, earlier this year I picked a trek: Annapurna I, from Besisahar to Jomsom, through the Manang province on the east and northeast side of the Annapurna range, going over Thorung La at 17,769 feet. I’d spent months training, often doing cardio twice a day in addition to strength training and stepping up my yoga practice. I wanted this, and committed deeply to being as prepared as possible.
Part of the Annapurna Range
My preparation was not, however, only physical. I spent a lot of time contemplating what I hoped for out of the experience while reminding myself to be open to whatever might come. I also prepared by following a widely held bit of wisdom in the kula: when undertaking something difficult, do it while holding in your heart someone you love. The night before I left, I prepared by setting down on cards those who and that which I love.
The first part was easy: my “kids.” I am lucky to have some amazing friends, and their children have become my “godkids.” Each of them are precious and dear to me, and they invite me to be a better person, to be the kind of adult I would want in their lives. So: Joseph, Riley, and Claire were the first names I wrote, and I included their pictures.
The second part was a bit more abstract at first. I wanted to hold in my heart my practice, honoring the ways this practice of yoga has transformed my life so fundamentally, so radically. In order to make the broad concept of my practice more concrete, I started by writing the names of the people I most associate with my practice.
The first card was for the teachers I practiced with during the first year of my practice: Stacey Rosenberg, Darcy Lyon, Sianna Sherman, Kenny Graham, Abby Tucker, and Laura Christensen. Yes, those are a lot of teachers during one year. Truth is, the fact that I now have a yoga practice would, once upon a time, have seemed unimaginable, and I needed a LOT of help.
The second and third cards were for my Immersion kulas: with Laura Christensen in 2007, and Stacey Rosenberg in 2009. The fourth card was for the kula that formed on a retreat with Darcy Lyon in the Sierra Nevadas in 2008, after my first trip to Nepal. That kula, some of whom have become dear, dear friends, is especially important to me, for the ways in which they so sweetly held space for someone they didn’t know very well to transform in a bit of a messy way. And I still owe them an interpretive dance (it’s a long story).
There is only one grace. There is only love.
The fourth card was for the “maha-teachers” of my practice, those wise and deeply skillful beings who inspire and guide so many: John Friend, Krishna Das, Paul Muller-Ortega and Douglas Brooks.
The fifth card was for the studios I practice at and for this site, BayShakti.com.
The final card was for Scott Marmorstein, that incredibly gifted, sweet, and powerful healer in our community. At the time I was leaving, Scott was just beginning to come out of a serious health condition, and I was so moved by our kula’s response to his condition, rallying messages of love and support from across the country for him. I had read that Scott had written, in one of his few statements during his ordeal, that,”There is only Grace.”
There is only Grace. I would think about that statement a lot during my trip.
All of the cards went into an envelope, on the outside of which I wrote, “There is only Grace.” To that I added, “There is only Love.”
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When I woke up the next morning, the restaurant in the guest house informed me they were having a hard time getting food because of the strike, and could only offer me toast. I wasn’t terribly concerned and had toast and Nepali tea for breakfast, and then went for a walk in the Thamel (the tourist district). I’d only gotten about ten minutes down the road when I heard shouting voices.
Thamel
I walked back towards the guesthouse, and saw, down a road that dead-ended into the road that there was a group of Maoist youth, dressed mostly in black with red handkerchiefs around their throats, marching about twelve abreast – so that they filled the breadth of the road – and easily twelve more deep. Some were carrying bamboo canes. My Nepali isn’t nearly good enough to understand what they were chanting, but I recognized the word “bandh” for strike. My friend that used to live in Nepal had counseled me that should I find myself in such a situation, to walk the other way. I headed back towards my guesthouse, and hoped that they would turn left when they reached where that road dead-ended into the road that I was on, rather than turning right, towards my guesthouse.
Of course, they turned right.
Inside the courtyard of the guesthouse, as I caught my breath, I thought to myself, “Well, this is going to be a very different trip then I expected.”
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To be continued in Part 2.
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