Timing is Everything

by Jen Whinnen

I grew up in Spokane Washington. I really like it there. In many ways Spokane is perfect. It’s a combination between a desert and a forest; nice and woodsy, but dry. It’s small, but not too small, and pretty. The people are very, very nice. One of my best friends lives there. It’s a great place to raise kids. It’s relatively safe with lots of open space to roam free. The weather is temperate so even though the winters tend to be long and cold, the summers never stay too hot for too long and there is zero humidity. There are tons of outdoor activities. It’s a smallish city with a nice community feel and fairly well supported art scene. It is a very nice place to live.

So why don’t I live there? Because, I don’t fit in. Spokane, for all its benefits, is not my place. For as long as I can remember I was out of place in my hometown. I had vastly different political views, have never really enjoyed outdoor activities and I am always, always cold. When I was young, headstrong and outspoken I would rail against Spokane, calling it a conservative hick town, with little or no culture, blah, blah, blah – the kind of stuff you say when you’re desperately insecure and need to feel superior. But now I know that there isn’t anything more or less wrong with Spokane than there is with any other place in the world.

Yogis continually talk about being “present.” It is one of those elusive ideas that often gets translated as “accept the hand your dealt” or “find the silver lining in this crummy situation.” I am not a fan of this translation. I don’t believe anyone should accept a resignation in life. If your situation is out of hand, acceptance doesn’t make it less so. It’s only by understanding who you are and how you work that you will get closer to touching Truth. Without this component, without understanding the landscape of your mind, you will always feel torn and confused. Yoga brings us closer to our authentic self not by teaching us how to resign ourselves to crummy situations, but by teaching us how to quiet the noise of constant recrimination and need. Once that happens we can hear and understand Truth and act accordingly.

Take my family’s move to a California suburb for example. One of the nicest things about city living is the parks. Parks are communal property. In a place where very few of us have anything that resembles a yard, we go to parks to air out our kids. It’s a collective experience and a nice, neutralizing place. You go, have a brief chat, crack a few jokes and move on. Sometimes you meet people you really like and want to get to know more and sometimes you suffer the fool, but either way Park Time is interactive time.

This is not true in the suburbs. Suburban parks are largely viewed as extensions of people’s yards. As such, cross communication is kept to a minimum. Parents bring their children and toys to the park and expect to be left alone. They rarely want to talk and more often than not spend the bulk of their time either on their phones or avoiding eye contact with other adults.

In the city it is widely accepted that if you bring toys to the park they are going to be played with by all the other kids in the park. Not so in the suburbs. When we’d go to the playground my son would march up to some kid and say “Hi, my name is Jack. Do you want to be my friend?” which means “Hi, what have you got there? I am going to touch it now.” This did not translate into Suburban. In the city, when the child with the toy starts to protest, the parents usually say something like “Now Billy, remember it’s nice to share.” But in the suburbs, the parents would shoot us a look that said “Bring your own toys to the park you mongrels!” Then they would scoop up their kid and stuff and leave.

It was, among many, a sign that we were not in the right place for us.

As our year yawned on, our disillusionment with suburban life grew. Eventually a series of events gave us the opportunity to leave California. We spent many nights making lists. Weighing the pros and cons, discussing the options, obsessing over where we’d go next. The option of moving back to New York was on the list but it was fraught with problems. It’s far away. Our families would be mad. It was expensive. The economy is bad. How it would affect the kids. John asked me “will moving back make you happy?”

I threw up my hands and said “I don’t know! Probably not. But I still think we should do it!”

Then I remembered one of the most often quoted texts from the Bhaghavad Gita;

  “Better to do one’s own duty imperfectly

    than to do another man’s well;

    doing action intrinsic to his being

    a man avoids guilt.” (8:47)

In the Gita, Arjuna, a soldier on the precipice of a battle, is holding council with Lord Krishna. Arjuna is having a crisis of faith. When he looks across the battle field he sees his cousins and knows that if he participates in this war, he is going to have to kill them. He doesn’t want to do this. He is about to walk away from battle, but Krishna counsels him otherwise. He says;

 “If you fail to wage this war
    of scared duty,
    you will abandon your own duty
    and fame will only gain evil.
    People will tell
   of your undying shame,
   and for a man of honor
   shame is worse than death.

   The great chariot warriors will think
   you deserted in fear of battle;
   you will be despised by those you esteem.

   Your enemies will slander you,
   scorning your skill in so many unspeakable ways –
   could any suffering be worse?” (2:33 – 36)

Essentially what he is saying is “Snap out of it! You think this war is going to stop because you choose not to fight? You think this battle isn’t going to happen without you? The only person who suffers from your lack of participation is you. Your people will turn their backs on you, your soldiers will say you abandoned them; the other side will call you a wimp. How is that better than doing what you are meant to do?”

Harsh words from God. Because the setting is war, the Gita is often misunderstood as a pro-war treatise, which it’s not. The backdrop of war is neither here nor there, the story could take place in an open air market and the lesson would still be the same. It’s just that backdrop of war is nice and dramatic. It helps to illustrate how mightily we have to struggle against our inclination to give up and walk away versus hunker down and fight our battles. It is a parable on the work we all must do.

Whether it is parenting, teaching, deep contemplation or carpentry, the work is the thing not the worker. Winning or the losing the battle is immaterial. Arjuna is a soldier. Therefore, he must fight. He must participate in his life. Whether he lives or dies doesn’t matter. Whether he fights well or poorly doesn’t matter. What matters is that he participates in his life.

This is probably one of the hardest concepts for me to wrap my mind around. Being an American I was trained to believe that life should be easy. I am entitled to the pursuit of happiness. Happiness comes from consuming things that will make it possible for me to do as little work as possible, right? The concept that work, whether it is done spectacularly or mediocre, is a path to liberation is completely foreign to me.

And yet, here I am in this self-created tumultuous life. We relocated back to New York in the spring. I started my own little yoga biz. Additionally I manage an on-line database. My husband started his own business and is going back to school. Together we’re raising two small humans. My children are young, my business is young, my husband’s business is young and, for all intents and purposes, we are old. We are starting over when most people have settled down. Every day feels like a race against the clock. The clock is ticking, ticking, ticking it never stops ticking! And each day my children get taller, wiser and older. And every day I think “Hey pay attention! You are missing this!”

But in between those moments of doubt, worry and insanity are these wonderful ones where, for the first time in a long time, I am in step with my own rhythms. I am completely absorbed in what I am doing. My life is working at my pace. I am in the right place for me. I tried to make my life what thought I “should” live. I tried to convince myself that someone else’s life was the one I wanted, but I was miserable. So, here I am in a kooky life that defies common sense.

And I feel better.

Doing your dharma isn’t about finding bliss or being perpetually happy. Practicing presence of mind isn’t about rolling over and accepting whatever comes your way as a cruel twist of fate. It’s about doing the work. It’s about learning the landscape of your mind and sticking with it when it’s awkward and hard and sucks. It’s about being present so that you can monitor and then moderate your reactions and interactions and maintain equanimity. It’s not finding the bright side of a bad situation or accepting that you are meant to suffer in some cosmic way, but accepting that you are in the driver’s seat of your own mind.

And deciding that the route you choose to take is ultimately up to you.

this post was taken from Jen’s personal blog “Timing is Everything” on 7/20/2010. To read more, click here: http://yogajen.blogspot.com/

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.