A Special Wish for 2025

Yesterday my son and I were sitting in the park enjoying a little down time between errands. These are some of my favorite moments with Jack because I know he will become introspective and philosophical. Inevitably he always comes to question whether man is a hopeful or hopeless creature, and because Jack is young and full of life, he always declares, “Well, I choose hope because even if it is all hopeless, at least I feel good in the here and now!” 

This is, of course, what I wish for him. I want him to see endless possibilities, to be full of hope, joy, and wonder. I want to spare him all of life’s pain and suffering.  

But what about those of us who have seen a few things, who have been disappointed? What about those of us who have discovered that life is often hard and joyless? What about those of us who, when we look at the year ahead, feel pretty meh about it? Are we hopeless? Do we lean into toxic positivity? Do we lean into toxic negativity? How do we, who’ve lived a life that is more nuanced and, perhaps a more painful, stay engaged and continue on?   

I don’t know. I don’t have platitudes to offer you. I have never been a fan of resolutions, of “New Year, New You!” tropes, or vague assurances that practice and all is coming. I am, at my best, a joyful pragmatist. As such, for 2025, I offer contemplation of Dhumavati, the Goddess of Disappointment.  

Most of the time when we talk about the dark side of the goddess we reference Kali, the warrior goddess who burns it all down. Kali is the fierce mother who pulls no punches, who kicks the baby bird out of the nest. She is the goddess who, through her furious action, makes us a better, more renewed version of ourselves. Dhumavati on the other hand, is the goddess of regret, disappointment, mourning and loss. Dhumavati is “a harbinger of worldly misfortune who ironically also bestows the inner gifts of detachment, emptiness, and freedom.” (Kempton, Sally. Awakening Shakti: The Transformative Power of the Goddesses of Yoga. Sounds True. Kindle Edition.) Her seed syllable is pronounced “doom” and means smoke; something ephemeral, wispy, hard to hold. Where Kali is the fire, Dhumavati is the smoke. 

So why, at this time of year when conventional wisdom says we think about hope, new beginnings, resolutions, starting again, am I encouraging you to contemplate the Goddess of Disappointment? 

Because you do not get fertile ground on a burned field. You get it through a fallow one. 

In the year(s) ahead it is important to embrace disappointment and not be afraid of it. Mourning is a part of life. Loss, voids, plateaus are to be expected. Knowing this saves us from great fear. Kali is the warrior, but sometimes after the battle, before you can fight again, there is a battlefield to clean up. There is mourning to be done. To survive a battle means to live with battle wounds and scars. And, if you are lucky, you will grow into an old, crumpled up crone. And I want that for you. I want you to know the crone. I want you to be able to go into the dark night of the soul, the deep chord where, after all the horns have been blown, after all the weapons have clashed, after it’s all been burned down, you hear Silence. Emptiness. Answers. 

Kali is a catalyst; we strike the match and make it happen. Dhumavati is inevitable. Disappointment is a fact of living a human life. As long as we have hope, we will also have disappointment. 

As much as I may want to shield myself (and my children) from the inevitable, I find it is best to acknowledge it, accept it, meditate on it. This is not to say I dwell on it, or resign myself to it, but I trust that Dhumavati is there within the disappointment, within the sadness, I trust that on the other side of that dark and miserable place there will be something. What that “something” is, I never know, but I do know I don’t need to be afraid of it. 

So this year I am wishing you compassion, empathy, forgiveness & love in all your successes and disappointments. May you be present and brave in the face of both. 

With love,

Jen

Small Footprint, Big Impact

This past weekend I had the pleasure of working with our engaged, enthusiastic, incredibly supportive and dedicated 300 hour students. Spending time with them is truly life giving - they fill the cup! 

One of our conversations was about the idea of “success” and our ability (or perceived inability) to make a significant impact. What constitutes success as a teacher? Is it the teacher who has 10k+ followers, one who has a thriving private practice, or the studio owner? Is it the teacher who “quit their day job” and now teaches full time? 

Success is, of course, subjective. Not everyone wants the same thing. What is successful to me is not necessarily successful to someone else. But when we look at the prevailing narrative of what a “successful” teacher is, it generally boils down to, “the one who makes the most money is the most successful.” 

Now, I’ve been training yoga teachers for 23 years and I assure you, this is not true. I have always felt that any student who comes through a YTT wants to teach, they just don’t always want to do it in the same way. And while I do have students who teach full time, who’ve opened studios, who are “yoga famous,” I also have students who use their training to help them be better leaders, teachers, nurses, police officers, friends, parents, etc. I have students who don’t have a clear idea of what they want out of the training, and I have students who have no desire to teach at all. I even have a student whose only goal was to learn how to teach yoga to their mom. No one else, just their mom. Are any of these reasons less lofty, less worthy than the other? 

No, they are not. 

In a world where we are bombarded with messages that reaffirm success as one note, one image, one path, it is absolutely subversive to do things without traditional ambitions or goals. 

Take TSY for example; TSY is a “micro business,” meaning we are smaller than a small business. In the twelve years since we opened, we've trained less than a thousand students. By the “most, biggest, best” standards TSY would not be considered very successful. But I know we are impactful. I see how much the training means to people. 

I know my footprint is small, but my impact is big. 

Meaningful impact as a teacher happens when you get people to congregate and communicate, when you connect with another person and share. You can be intentional, devoted, good at what you do and be relatively unknown, uncelebrated and still be successful. The people in your orbit are important enough to care about and extend yourself for. It doesn’t need to be more than that. 

If you are interested in teaching, you should. You may have a small footprint, but that does not mean you cannot make a big impact. 

Confidence is Overrated

I fell off the emailing this past few weeks because we had the good fortune to graduate one group of students and then start right away working with another. It has been a whirlwind turn around, but it is worth it. As our sangha grows we become increasingly blessed with more and more wonderful, talented and exceptional people.

Working with aspiring teachers is a lot like working with new yoga students; there is a palatable tension, a heightened level of self consciousness. They are both vulnerable and scared. It is not often as adults that we put ourselves in new situations, ask ourselves to move outside our comfort zone, or force ourselves to learn a new skill. And entering a room of “others” is a daunting task at the best of times. We hope it’s going to go OK, that we won’t be judged harshly, that we’ll make friends. Add to that the fact that you are going to be forced to do some public speaking and try to instruct others and - truly, it is  enough to make any grown-up cry. Anyone who gets up in front of people and tries to teach them is, to me, a superhero. It is a courageous act.

Even if they are bad at it.

When getting feedback, teacher trainees often get this one one piece of advice, “be more confident.” Yet, asking someone to be “more confident” in this situation is like asking a blade of grass to be more like a tree. A blade of grass has no more knowledge of how to be a tree than a new teacher knows how to “be more confident” (whatever that means).

Your lack of confidence isn’t the problem. The advice is. Like many well meaning mentors, teachers will often fall back on old tropes like “be more confident.” But, that advice is not helpful. How can you be more of something you are not?

It is OK to not be confident. It is OK. You do not have to be more than you are. Be nervous and jittery. It is OK.

Confidence comes with competence. The more I understand, the better equipped I feel. The better equipped I am, the more I can offer. I gain confidence as my competence improves. My competence improves through study and practice. You know… yoga.  

So truly, the best advice is; get comfy with being bad. Because, doing something well is not a matter of doing it right. It is about allowing yourself to be bad. Truly it is.

In each new training cycle I tell our students, “Get up here and fail spectacularly, please. This is the best place to be really, really bad at what you do, so jump in with both feet and blow it!” Because, you will find that, despite your discomfort, you will live to see another day. And you are teaching yourself a vital skill; how to try again.

If you are not confident. That is OK. You are here and you are trying. That will be enough for today.

This is loving kindness.

And isn’t this what we want for our students? You can’t teach what you don’t know. Accepting your discomfort and doing it anyway will help you help you find the tools to help others do the same.

That way, when that very new, adult, student comes to you and says, “I’m no good at yoga,” instead of falling back on, “that’s OK, yoga is for everyone!” you can confidently say, “that’s OK, I’m learning too.”

Welcome back to school yogis.
 

Thinking like a Tween

I am going out on a limb here, but stick with me. I often hear people say that we should be more “childlike.” The reason being that children are pure of heart. If we connect to our inner child, we too will become pure of heart. This has always irritated me. Yes, children are blissfully, wonderfully, naïve. They are pure of heart. They often speak little pearls of wisdom. When they are happy and full of wonder, it is a joy. This is true. 

Children are also needy. They need. They need adults to guide them. They need a world that protects and provides for them. They are dependent on outside forces to create the conditions for their bliss. And this is why this analogy annoys me. The work of coming into consciousness isn’t about living in a blissfully unaware state that depends upon the world to take care of us. Consciousness demands action. Consciousness demands that we become aware of ourselves in the world. It is accepting that, should we desire transcendence, we have to do the work of transcending our “self.” 

That is why, I think we should all try to be more like middle schoolers. 

Middle school is a liminal age. It is a great ball of hormonal fire hurtling towards adolescence at a snail’s pace. It is slow and awkward and often painful being a tween. They are awakening to adulthood, yet still comfortably nestled in the safety net of childhood. Tweendom is the bridge between Christmas Past and Christmas Yet to Come. They are more aware of themselves, but they are still so goofy. As they struggle to come understand life’s limitations, they are open to possibilities. They struggle with being sentient, with self-identity, and yet they are still very playful. They have amazing insight and are not afraid; but, they are also extremely self-conscious and totally afraid. 

Tweens are, in many ways, the embodiment of present mindedness. They are becoming more aware of themselves, they are interested in the possibilities of an awakened life, but they still want to be tucked in at night. They still believe in fantasy, but are also weirdly practical. Funny, goofy, stinky, emotionally all over the place; middle schoolers are basically every one of our internal lives living outside our bodies. The other day my middle schooler turned to me and said, “being alive is so hard!”

Welcome to the big leagues, kid.

And this is not to say that little kids aren’t their own emotional wrecking balls, they are. But, toddlers have little to no control over their emotional lives. They are basically the Id in small shoes, daring you to try and make them feel better. A tween’s awareness, however, is dawning. They are trying to get comfortable with their burgeoning consciousness. They struggle every day with how to accept that they are small, insignificant, different; yet, they remain confident that a fantastic journey is just around the corner.

That is why I recommend that we be more like a tween. Don’t give up the thrill of make believe, hang on to the beauty of imagination, but channel it through the angst. Our angst is our longing. Longing is our consciousness’s urge to connect to something greater than ourselves. It’s the twitchy, itchy nerve that is only satisfied when we are truly connected to the beautiful. Our separateness creates the longing for connection. Longing, when directed and focused, draws us into the experience of beauty, into Pure Consciousness, Jiva, God. This experience teaches us how to be a good friend, a good neighbor, a good, global citizen. It moves us beyond the self and into the Self. 

I know this may be way out there, but I stand by it. Tweens for the win! What about you? Do you remember what it was like to be a tween? Do you have a tween in your life now? If you had the chance to do it all again, would you?