Namaste from Mothership Mysore!
The school children are still screaming, rick-shaws careening, and dahls frying out here on the Indian sub-continent. It feels as though I was just here. I unpacked the sarees and salwars from my trunk, along with local flip flops, a few stainless mugs, and some towels. Banging my laundry on the roof again, feels like home.
It is a blessing to be in a smaller group here with Sharath, all are teachers and it’s some serious comraderie. We are a family, united in representing this tradition of yoga. I am really seeing how so much of the yoga routine comes from a traditional Brahmin household. For instance, it is one’s duty to chant, one is raised to do it. I ended up at the notary with my landlord (now, that’s a whole different story, which will make its way to the blog, along with others when the politics clear up) for the officiating of a document. The two started speaking in Kannada and I could discern they were discussing their Japa practice of the Gayatri, 108 times in the AM. I was loving how a political meeting was laced with mantra.
The yoga students, we all sit around at mealtimes and discuss our students, our home places, our schedules, our bowel movements (just kidding- we’ve all been here enough we don’t even need to talk about poop anymore). I am always reminded that I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for YOU back bay ashtangis. I think of you daily. Your respect and faith for the yoga work, your dedication to the evolution of consciousness, inspires me to forge ahead. Teaching with you has brought me great respect for moderation, softness, and patience, all things I needed.
But ah, it’s so nice to just wake up and go to the shala for my own practice every day and get adjustments. It is heartening to find that my being is still opening despite having a daily teaching commitment. Perhaps even because of it. The practice is a bicycle we never forget how to ride. Trust me, its true, its always been true, even when we think we will never bind that Mareechasana again.