The Rite of Way

by Jen Whinnen

There are six main darsanas, or schools of thought in Hinduism. Yoga is one of them. A lot of the writings about yoga have a lot to say about the mind and most of it is pertains to what the mind is not, namely, you are not your mind, don’t be a slave to your mind, you must reign in your mind, etc. The most often quoted of which is “yogah cittavritti nirodahah,” yoga is the restraint of mental modifications (Yoga Sutras, I.2), meaning the thing I think of as “Me” is really an obstacle that keeps distracting me from seeing myself for the purely luminous being I am. The irony of this is that yoga is deeply philosophical and philosophy is the act of thinking. It is concerned with thinking about the nature of existence. So, yogic philosophy is thinking about the fact that You are not what you think you are and so stop thinking about it.

The foundational text of many yoga schools is theYoga Sutras of Patanjali which is a very philosophical, but extremely practical text. It starts by defining the mind, it’s various “modifications” (knowledge, misconception, delusion, sleep and memory) and then goes on to tell you how each of these modifications can be controlled systematically and eventually manipulated so that you can be liberated from the cycle of reincarnation. Until recently I’ve never really been attracted to the Yoga Sutras. Although I’ve always admired the texts and see true brilliance in the wisdom I found it overly rigorous and completely sexist.

However, as a western woman teaching yoga and training yoga teachers, I feel obligated to think about how this philosophy works (if it works) and how it pertains to my life (if it does). So I went back to college. Hunter College offers a broad based “religion” program. Not a theology, seminary, or Hebrew studies program, but a real, live honest to God (pun intended) “let’s study religion academically” program. This is very appealing to me because I love religion but I am not at all religious. I am not even “spiritual, not religious.” I don’t follow any creed, am not a member of any church or sect and am not looking for a conversion or enlightenment. I am firmly rooted in this reality and understand that I’m either coming back around or getting left behind. And I am OK with that. I am not interested in being saved, I don’t want to bow before any alter or present offerings to anyone.

But, I love religions. I think they are completely, utterly fascinating. Religious texts are so uplifting and inspiring. They are the first recorded poetry, song and drama of the human experience. When I read religious texts I feel the ache of human suffering and the yearning for pure love and I want to learn more. As an observer. I really just want to be an observer.

Which is why the Hunter College program was so exciting to me (and continues to inspire me even when I question the sanity of going back to school to get a second bachelors, while trying to run two small businesses and raising two small kids). Last semester I took “Yogis, Mystics & Shamans” and it’s been pretty much pure synchronicity because not only does this help me with my goal of getting better acquainted with the Yoga Sutras, but it has also introduced me to Kundalini yoga, a world I never knew existed. I’ve taken a few kundalini yoga classes over the years and have enjoyed them, but I knew nothing of the philosophy behind it. In hatha yoga there are rigorous steps one must take in order to achieve enlightenment. First you must align yourself with Yamas (universal principles) and then the Niyamas (personal code of conduct), then you practice asana, pranayama, etc. In hatha yoga the rigors of practice can be extreme; eating only one grain of rice a day, sleeping on a bed of nails, etc. These austerities are designed to separate the yogi from his attachment to the physical world and to enter fully into the psychic world of the soul.

But, Kundalini yoga, you know what you need to do to get enlightenment going?

Nothing.

That’s right! You don’t have to do anything. The guru does it for you! The guru is the conduit for shaktipat, spiritual energy that s/he bestows upon a disciple. When a yogi gets shaktipat, the yogi awakens Kundalini at the base of the central energy channel (the shushumna) and after that, all good things are coming. Now, depending on how much karma you have will dictate how much you feel shaktipat. So someone like me, whose firmly rooting on this earth, may not get much and may end up “enlightened light,” whereas someone whose been coming around for a long time and has very little karmic weight may get a direct link to the universal consciousness and away they go! Of course after receiving shaktipat you have to do the work of meditating which gets Kundalini rising and starts her on her mission of cleaning out your chakras and that work could take a lifetime and may involve things like kriyas (moving meditations, similar to asanas), but the actual awakening is bestowed upon you by someone else.

And this is why I love studying religion. Had I not taken this class I wouldn’t know that there is this other world of yoga. I would have thought that my knowledge was the sum total and I would be living in Avidya (ignorance). According to yogic philosophy, Avidya is one of the main causes of suffering and evil in the world. In fact, in this system there isn’t a good or bad, it’s either right knowledge or ignorance. The more right knowledge we have, the less ignorant we become and less likely we are to harm.

I like this. In fact, this is why yoga is the closest I’ve ever come to adopting a spiritual practice. The philosophies aren’t absolutes. They are simply optional pathways and all the pathways are considered viable. In a world where we are told we have to do this, we must look like that, we need to have this thing or that thing in order to be happy it is encouraging to find a system that says “try this, see if it works” and leaves the rest up to you.

I have no idea if one system is right or wrong or if what I am doing is cosmically correct, and I really don’t care because I really don’t think it matters. The only thing I know for sure is that no else knows for sure either and this makes me happy because at least I know am in good company.

The Typewriter

by Jen Whinnen

When I was a kid my dad started his own business. He set up a home office and purchased an electric typewriter. It was a pretty high-tech piece of equipment for the time and a source of fascination for me. It sat on a short, black, metal bookcase, a pedestal that separated it from the rest of the desk riff-raff. It was a totem of progress and possibility, a shiny and sleek white machine with black keys and a red “power” button.

The typewriter evoked a feeling of busy, efficient progress and purpose. When it turned on, it hummed. The keys made delicious, slapping sounds as they smacked against stark white paper and envelopes. When the typewriter was on, the basement was flooded with light and hive-like movement. When the typewriter was on, adult things were happening and we had to “go play somewhere else”.

Sadly, my dad’s business did not make it and the typewriter ceased to have any practical purpose. It was demoted to “toy” for my sisters and me.

I loved this toy. I would spend hours sitting at the typewriter trying to unravel its mysteries. I would pound away at the keys, typing so furiously that they would get all tangled up in the middle. I’d untangle the keys, study how they lined up in their proper places in the bed of the typewriter and then do it all over again.

It had an auto return feature that would automatically roll the paper up, thus permitting one to continue to type uninterrupted. This was a marvel for me. I would set and re-set the margins at various widths and line spacing and then type away, watching the paper fly. Sometimes the lines would be really far apart and others they’d be so close to together the type would be on top itself. Other times I’d try to make a solid black line by setting the line spacing so short that the typewriter would auto return over the same line over and over again. It was an exacting exercise that never bore the results I’d hoped for, but kept me entertained for a really, really long time.

Then there was the “erase” feature. It had two ribbons one black, one white. If you hit the “erase” button, it would go back and stamp white ink over what you just typed, thus effectively “erasing” your mistake. I would type full lines and then hit erase, erase, erase, erase, erase. This feature fascinated me. How many times would the typewriter obey my request to erase? (Answer: indefinitely. You just hit the button and the white tape would pop-up. Every. Single. Time.) Could I re-insert a page and get it to erase something I’d typed previously? (Answer: No. That’s what white out was for.)

The actual act of typing was a mystery that I assumed must be accomplished by sheer act of will. I would randomly strike keys, watch the paper roll through the machine and then scour the page to see if I had actually typed any words. I got in a few “hog”s, “as”, maybe a “lik” and thought for sure I was getting the hang of it.

But, for as much as I loved the typewriter, I also grew to loathe it. After my dad’s business failed, he suffered his first in a series of nervous breakdowns and was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. His bouts of mania were often ear-marked by late night typing sessions. The happy clickety clack of “daytime typewriter” morphed into the pneumatic drill of “nighttime typewriter”. Nighttime typewriter would slowly, persistently, draw me my out of my dreams and into the late night hours of mania. I’d rouse from sleep, hear the keys and groan. I tried to ignore it, but the harder I tried, the more insistent my mind latched onto it. I’d toss and turn and eventually give up the fight and lie there, eyes wide open, trying to will my father back to bed.

One night I stumbled out of bed and asked him, “Dad what’re you doing?”

He startled then snapped, “What do you want?”

“Nothing, I just heard the typewriter. It woke me up.”

“Well,” he paused, “I’m sorry about that, but can’t you see I am busy?”

Not wanting to upset him further, and knowing that I wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep, I curled up on the couch and watched him. All his manic energy was focused on trying to make some elusive thought tangible. He was wild-eyed and disheveled. His hair was greasy and matted to his forehead, indicating that he probably hadn’t bathed or slept in several days. He sat hunched over his work so that his glasses slipped down his nose, making him look like a strict, rather wild, school teacher.

His intensity and size made him frightening, yet I felt kinship, a feeling I rarely ever felt for my father. I understood his desire to make that typewriter manifest something. I understood the draw of the keyboard. For the first time, I saw myself in my dad. I closed my eyes and listened. Eventually the sound became soothing, rhythmic. I fell asleep.

Having a mentally ill father taught me early on that empathy can be a powerful tool for finding compassion. When I struggle to break bread with a person who challenges me, throwing in a little self-referential empathy is often the spice that makes the stew a feast.

Yet, while empathy allows me to hold the space for others, it is a spice best used judiciously. Use too much and it overpowers all the other flavors. Boundaries blur and I find that rather than standing by, I am walking through the quagmire of someone’s life for them.

This past weekend I witnessed a family whose member is going through his first in what promises to be a long series of bi-polar related manic episodes. My heart breaks for all of them. I know how difficult the years ahead are going to be. To watch someone you love tear himself apart and refuse help is horrible. But, at some point there is simply nothing you can do but say “I am here for you. When you are ready, when you decide you need help, come to me and I will help you as best I can.”

This sounds callous, but it’s not. Each life must be led individually. We all have to find the recipe that makes the most of all the flavors in it. Each stew, casserole, etc. is different and can only be made by the person whose skin it is in. No matter how badly I want to say “I can see you’re having trouble, why don’t you just scoot over and let me do that for you”, the best I can do is sit close by, hand you the salt and respond to your efforts with love.