Yoga in Hertfordshire
What a week! Cathy and I would like to thank everyone who joined us at Can Dream in northern Ibiza. We think it was the best holiday yet. Thank you for your good humour, dedication to the practice and for generally being good eggs.
Click on each image for a closer look.
I’ve written this in preparation for an advanced yin teacher training I’m doing with Norman Blair in June…
‘Practice’ is an interesting word. For me, it means:
That’s how I’ve structured this piece of writing.
Moving in this body
Yin has undoubtedly had an impact on how I practice ashtanga yoga. Although I pretty much discovered both simultaneously, it’s been more recently that I have considered how one affects your attitude towards the other.
I’ve seen people so focused in their ashtanga practice. They throw absolutely everything at it. It’s an attack or an assault and there’s no ease. I used to be a bit like that but now I try and bring the yin to the yang. I try not the force the asana.
Michel Besnard taught me on my 500 hour training and his favourite phrase is “who cares”. Who cares if you don’t get your head to your shin in paschimotanasana. Who cares if you don’t jump through. A good mantra if ever I heard one.
So I think about how I can create space. I listen inwardly and there’s less striving.
As a result, there’s more connection to breath. It really feels like a moving meditation and I feel more. I certainly notice more. How does my lumbar and glute medius feel in supta kurmasana? Am I really engaging my adductors in navasana? What’s going on with the bandhas?
Moving slowly suits me. Given half the chance, I’d happily lie in bed all morning. I’m a naturally tamasic person. I find it more challenging to gee myself up to practice ashtanga at home. But yin? I’m there in a flash – sprawled out across the living room carpet – I need to be peeled off with a spatula.
Being in this body
I remember being at university one day and walking across campus only to be brought to a standstill by the sight of a huge flock of Canadian geese flying overhead in formation, above the spires of the neo-gothic buildings. The sky was bright blue and they stood out against the grey Yorkshire stone.
I looked at all the other students scurrying around me, anxious to get to their morning lectures on time. No-one else saw this natural beauty. The geese were so peaceful and elegant, quietly making their way to wherever they were heading. The encounter inspired me to create scribbles in my sketchbook.
At that point in my life I’d never even been to a yoga class, didn’t know what yin meant but that act of noticing the little things has always been in me. I was brought up with a father who made me look at the tiny flowers growing on dry stone walls on country walks and I’m pretty good at spotting a typo. I’m all about the details.
But at the same time, I’d say that I’ve lived my life quite detached from noticing the subtleties of this body and what’s going on inside.
In my twenties, I got terrible anxiety. I couldn’t eat in some social situations and I got really stressed about it. It became a self-fulfilling prophecy. I remember going to see a lady for some cognitive behavioural therapy. She said, “You’re going to do a yoga teacher training? Oh that’ll sort you out!” She was right. It was through yoga that I realised it was tension-related – where do I hold my tension? In my stomach. It made sense why I struggled to eat.
While the process of looking inward can be scary at times, I’ve learnt that it’s so beneficial. Being still in a yin practice facilitates this. You notice the sensations. It’s a practice you can take off the mat and into your everyday life.
I had a run-in with someone not too long ago and there were a few very tense phone conversations where I had to make it clear that I wasn’t a happy bunny. Every time I came off the phone I spent a few breaths noticing the impact on body – the tightening, the holding, the shortening of breath. I wouldn’t have thought to do that before I’d discovered yin or Martin Alyward.
Living with this mind
Yin has allowed me to reconnect with a meditation practice.
Having done my initial teacher training with Sivananda, I was given a mantra and for about six months after coming home from India, I’d religiously get up early, silently chant my mantra for 20 minutes and then get on with my day. And then winter crept in, I got busy at work and the Sanskrit went out of the window.
Ryan Spielman introduced me to the teachings of meditation teacher Martin Alyward and I began doing my yin practice at home listening to his podcasts. So much of his teachings resonated. They applied to a yin practice and to life in general.
I began a sitting practice again and went on a five-day silent retreat to Gaia House with Martin last October. Since then, I’ve made time to sit during the week. For me, it feels right to spend this time noticing my breath – its nuances – and noticing sensations. I notice how distracted my mind is – and that’s ok. An insight meditation practice does exactly that: it provides insight. I notice what is instead of filling my mind with something else like a mantra.
My mind now appreciates the quiet. My boyfriend Rob likes listening to BBC Radio 5 Live and it’s a lot of talking. I struggle to have a conversation with him if it’s on in the background. I like eating in silence and enjoying the taste of food. I like listening to birdsong and watching the squirrels.
Yin has taught me about acceptance – again, the softening around the striving – accepting situations and people as they are, not willing them to be different. Of course, it’s a work in progress.
Martin talks about how we’re so fixated on ‘letting go’ and that it’s an overused phrase in today’s yoga and spiritual industry. He says we should focus instead on ‘unclinging’. I like this. There’s the unclinging and softening in yin poses and then how this translates into the everyday.
I’ve been a cling-on. In the past I think I’ve verged on the control freak end of the spectrum. My organisational skills have been praised in past jobs and I’ve taken pride in being on-the-ball. I’ve tried to find the ideal man that ticked all the boxes. But since practicing yin and finding this softening, I’ve been able to open up – physically and mentally.
I’ve relaxed my tick box exercise and now I’m engaged to be married. Would I have dismissed Rob in the past due to his love of football and for having never stepped foot on a yoga mat? Probably. But now I’m able to see deeper and recognise his wonderful goodness.
Recently I met with a friend of a friend who was considering resigning from her safe, well-paid but boring job to try freelancing. She was full of ‘what ifs’: What if I don’t get any work? What if I’m no good at it? I was talking to a mirror. I was looking at me from a few years’ ago.
I talked to her about fear. I told her that she had good skills and experience. If freelancing doesn’t work for her, she can get a job doing something, anything. Fear can paralyse us. I wouldn’t know this stuff if I hadn’t practiced yin and worked on unclinging.
I could go on talking about the way yin has had an impact on my life, but I’ll stop now. Suffice to say, it’s all about the noticing. I’m much happier as a result. And for this I’m truly grateful.
I’ll leave you with Roger Keyes’ poem about the wonderful Japanese artist, Hokusai:
Hokusai says look carefully.
He says pay attention, notice.
He says keep looking, stay curious.
He says there is no end to seeing…
He says everything is alive –
Shells, buildings, people, fish
Mountains, trees. Wood is alive.
Water is alive.
Everything has its own life.
Everything lives inside us.
He says live with the world inside you…
It matters that you care.
It matters that you feel.
It matters that you notice.
It matters that life lives through you…
Look, feel, let life take you by the hand.
Let life live through you.
How has yin yoga influenced your practice? I’d love to know. Feel free to leave your thoughts below.
Last month I taught my last yin workshop at Bermondsey Fayre. It marked the end of an era: Up until now, I’ve always taught in Bermondsey.
When I first started teaching, I set up a weekly class in Bermondsey Village Hall – tucked in amongst Leathermarket Gardens with its stark silver birches and meandering snowdrops and crocuses. The Shard was just a building site back then but now it looms large over the roses and squirrels.
Now when I’ve cut through on an early Sunday morning on my way to Bermondsey Fayre, the village hall is home to a South East Asian gathering doing their weekly praising with much hand-clapping, tabourining and joyous voices.
I’ve taught at Bermondsey Fayre for three years – first weekly and then monthly but I’m no longer in London and it’s a long journey from St Albans on a Sunday morning.
It’s the people that I’ll miss the most:
The giggles in class.
The groaning when I suggest you kneel, tuck your toes under and sit on your heels (you know who you are).
The occasional in-jokes.
The faces when you finally come up to sitting.
The apologetic latecomers whose penance is a spot directly in front of me.
The prop cupboard Jenga.
The wriggling up and down in twists to accommodate the pole/wall…
The catching up with people’s lives and the goodbye hugs.
But it’s Liz Dillon who has made it all happen. The place is full of beautiful things made with love and a lot of it is Liz’s love.
Thank you to everyone who’s ever spent a Sunday morning yinning with me. If you suffer from yin withdrawl symptoms (a longing for mindful poetry and being read to, blankets and eyebags, increased crankiness and hunched backs, etc) I can highly recommend Norman’s workshops at the West London Buddhist Centre or St Albans isn’t far.
Thank you to Liz for these kind words:
We are very sad to say goodbye to our lovelier than lovely Clare Wener who has brought so much joy to Bermondsey Fayre and has stretched out and released tension in so many of our muscles with her fantastic yin workshops.
There is always a sense of bliss when I walk into Bermondsey Fayre after Clare’s workshops and a feeling of joy, love and laughter.
Clare has been commuting from Hertfordshire for a year or two now after leaving London and time has come for her to pull back from her London teaching and put more of her energy into her new home and community where she is living.
We will miss you Clare!
I’ve heard it said that selling and buying a house is one of the most stressful things you can do. I’m selling two and buying one.
There’s calls to estate agents, followed by follow-up calls. You’re not sure if they haven’t responded because they didn’t get the message or if they just haven’t called you back yet.
There’s emails to and from solicitors and the estate agent for my flat in London. And don’t get me started on trying to sort a mortgage when one of you is self-employed. My accountant has the patience of a saint.
I’ve had a love affair with a house in Kimpton village. It was brief. We met online on the Friday, I fell head over heels but he wasn’t sure. I lay awake a night thinking of nothing else. By Monday when I phoned wanting to take it a step further, I learnt that it was too late. Decisions had already been made.
But it’s funny how you move on so quickly. The mind is fickle. You obsess, but immediately we move onto the next infatuation (aka a semi in Sandridge).
The result is feeling very ungrounded. Everything feels urgent. My self practices are shoe-horned into my days, they’re much shorter, and I’ve noticed my mind flitting all over the place. Very short concentration spans. Very short sentences.
Today has been no different: a mental list of all the calls, chasing, appointments and things to do. After lunch, I made time to sit for 15 minutes and watch my breath. It was noticeable how much tension was in my hips, my thighs, my jaw and shoulders. I watched my exhalations. I softened. And now I feel like I’ve reset my body.
Try it some time.
PS. There’s a very nice one-bed flat for sale in Chiswell Green, St Albans, if you’re interested. Have a look at it on Rightmove – start your own love affair today…
“Look at this,” said a male non-yogi friend of mine, thrusting his iPhone screen towards my face. “You can do yoga up The Shard!”
I looked at the screen. There was an image on an email: slender, young, women in tight yoga gear, opening out in warrior two whilst taking in the vibrant lights of London far below.
He continued, “This is what you should be teaching. How cool would that be!”
I looked up at him scrunching my nose. “Nah, I’ll pass thanks. If you did yoga up there, you’d spend the whole time looking out at the view whereas yoga’s about looking within.”
He replied, “Oh I wouldn’t want to do any of that looking in stuff. That would be well scary. I don’t want to go there. But The Shard… that might tempt me to try yoga.”
I liked this conversation. It made me smile. Here was a bloke – a hardcore Arsenal fan (not that I’m stereotyping, of course) – considering yoga because of the cool location. The very location may be so distracting, that he misses the whole point of yoga. But if it gets him on a yoga mat for the first time, then what’s the harm?
I heard the other day about yoga classes being offered in a brewery in London. You do a class, then have a beer afterwards. My first teacher training was with the Sivananda school of yoga where even eating garlic is considered a huge no-no. Yoga in a brewery? Swami Sivananda would be turning in his grave if he hadn’t been reincarnated.
I was in Thailand before Christmas and I practiced overlooking some stunning scenery – the incredible beach with the white sand and the glassy sea in the early morning golden light. But those practices were some of the most unfocused practices I’ve ever had. I was so overwhelmed by my surroundings that I was wobbling all over the place.
It’s funny how far ‘yoga’ has come. It’s hip and everyone wants a piece of the action. In London, it feels like yoga’s being offered anywhere and everywhere just to get people through the door.
Give me a scruffy, sweaty, beaten-up old room any day. Just my body, my breath and my mat. That’s what works for me. And who knows – some of those brewery yogis may find that they enjoy the practice in that room with me.
I’ve recently come back from a silent meditation retreat in Devon at Gaia House with Martin and Gail Aylward. We spent lots of time sitting, and the meditation practice was quite unlike anything I’ve done before – no need to chant my Sanskrit mantra until I’ve obliterated all other thoughts. This was far more gentle and offered the chance of actual insight linked to body.
Over the five days, all 50 of us met with Martin in small groups of eight or so people in what was called a ‘group interview’. Having never done anything like it before, I didn’t really know what would happen.
I was in a room with comfy armchairs in a circle, and oak panelling on the walls. Martin sat cross-legged on an armchair in front of a grand fireplace. I’m slightly in awe of him. He’s wise, incredibly knowledgeable, yet approachable. He’s spent time living with monks in Thailand, yet he’s very at home talking about the realities of Western living.* But he’s got these eyes that make you feel like he’s looking into your being.
“What’s come up for you?” he asked me in the group interview.
I didn’t want everyone looking at me. I hadn’t spoken in three days and now I was confronted with having to talk about my inner thoughts and feelings in front of a group of people who I’d been living around – maybe we’d helped ourselves to the breakfast porridge at the same time, or walked into the meditation hall behind each other. But that was it.
I casually answered, “Oh just mundane stuff really, and thoughts around planning for the future.”
“What else?” I felt those eyes on me.
“Er, songs. I’ve got songs going round in my head. That’s all.” Florence and her machine had been plaguing me for days. I was squirming. I wanted him to move onto the next person.
“What else?” His eyes. I shrugged and squirmed more.
“What about all this embodiment stuff we’ve been talking about?” He pressed further.
My response was short: “I don’t know.” In my head I was wanting him just to gloss over it and not look any deeper. But he wasn’t having any of it.
He sighed. “Ok, how do you feel right now in your body?”
I paid attention to the sensations. I was sitting in an armchair, one sole of foot pressed into the seat and my hands tightly gripped the bent knee. I noticed an incredible heat in my body and I was actually sweating. All my muscles everywhere felt engaged. I could not move.
I told him all this, and as I told him, my body physically released and relaxed.
“How do you feel now?” he asked. I replied that I felt calm.
“THAT’s what you need to work on!” he exclaimed, pointing his index finger at me. And he moved onto the next person.
Some people cried as they talked about their fears and anxieties and people slid a box of tissues across the floor to the next person. And you know what? It was all ok.
But after that point, for the rest of the retreat, I was able to go deeper in my meditation. I was more attuned to sensations in my body.
It’s weird because when I’m on my mat practicing, I’m able to notice more. I find it easier (‘easier’ not ‘easy’) to observe the tension and soften.
But when we’re under pressure, when we get caught up in our thoughts, it can all go out of the window. And that’s when we need it the most! I was transported back to school and being scared to speak in class in case I said the ‘wrong’ thing. It’s fear and it manifests as anxiety. We contract around our experience.
Since returning home a week ago, I’ve found it challenging. I’ve felt overwhelmed by all the communication – emails, voicemails, whatsapp messages, texts, TV, radio, speaking and listening… but I’m trying to notice how that contraction manifests in my physical body and seeking to soften.
I would recommend everyone looks up Martin Aylward and I’d love to spend time again next year with him and Gail at Gaia House. There I go again – planning for the future…
*My favourite retreat moment was when, during a talk with Martin in the main hall, a phone sounded the arrival of a text. Phones aren’t encouraged at Gaia House. Martin stopped mid-sentence, reached inside his pocket, pulled out his iPhone and looked at the screen. “It’s a text from my son,” he announced to us all, smiling. His wife Gail, sitting to one side, looked down at her lap and stifled a giggle.
I went for a walk last week. I was making my way along a country lane and I took my phone out of my pocket. I turned it on and started typing a reply to a text. I wrote a couple of words and realised I’d taken a handful of steps without noticing. I put my phone back in my pocket and carried on walking.
Where was I? I was on a five-day silent meditation retreat at Gaia House in Devon. I had gone to spend time sitting, moving and learning with Martin and Gail Aylward.
This ‘noticing’ is really what Gaia House is all about. Everything you do there is set up to cultivate awareness.
Every day we practiced walking meditation. There’s a large room with creaky wooden floorboards and a huge bay window containing houseplants that were just as huge. In a marble fireplace sat a skeleton reminding us of our immortality. I slowly walked back and forth noticing what arose in the space between bones and leaves – the dead and the living.
But it was the outside walking practice that I enjoyed the most. You chose a space in the beautiful grounds and you paid attention to your every step:
I noticed
the way my feet made contact with the ground
the golden hues of early autumn leaves
the restriction in my left big toe joint due to an old sprain
a plane soaring overhead
a softening of shoulders
the occasional weed sprouting for victory
exhaling breath on top lip
the heat in hands from clasping a mug of peppermint tea
the cacophony of cawing crows
sash windows with wobbly panes of glass catching the light unevenly
the warm sun on face
the subtle smell of peppermint
the inhaling expansion of rib cage.
It’s often said – I believe – that women are brilliant multi-taskers. I’m sure many men would disagree. But is multi-tasking such a great thing? Trying to do ten things at once?
I’d rather do one thing very well.
I’ve been reminded recently of a conversation I had with some friends in a pub many years ago in South London. At the time, they were triathlon-mad and I just went to a weekly yoga class after work. They were talking about how they were yet to start training for their next competition and I said, “Well, if you don’t think you’ll be ready in time, just don’t do it.”
They laughed. “Oh Wener, you just don’t get it, do you.”*
But what represents progress? Achieving faster finish times? Putting our body into more complex yoga shapes… and posting the results on social media? The recent news about advanced Ashtangi Kino MacGregor is a case in point (read Matthew Remski’s brilliant article about Kino).
To an outsider, my physical ashtanga practice may look like it’s taken a step backwards lately. It has to be a really good day for me to attempt chakrasana, I’m barely binding in the janu sirshasanas, and some days, my practice is just a few cat/cows and yin poses.
But I know that I’m making progress. My lower back and pelvis plays up and I’ve got wonky knees. If I push it, I believe I’ll end up needing knee replacements and have a constant bad back. I want a practice that:
That’s progress for me.
I’m spending time tuning into the subtleties of the practice: am I moving my groins together? Am I engaging mula bandha and uddiyana bandha? And when I do these things, I feel stronger and have a solid foundation. I’m not merely hanging in my joints and there’s no pain at the end of my practice.
You can’t see any of this stuff on the outside. It’s all internal. But when you make these changes inside, the stuff outside starts to fit into place.
Less really is more. And that is indeed the lesson of yoga.
Kindness melts defenses. Kindness softens edges. Kindness pierces armour. Kindness eradicates shame. Kindness lightens loads. Kindness awakens hope. Kindness clears debris. Kindness invites connection. Kindness opens hearts. Kindness bridges souls. Kindness inspires kindness. Let us always be kind.
Jeff Brown
*These days, the lovely triathlon ladies can mostly be found in yoga classes and on yoga retreats (Love you, Rach).
I’ve recently come back from Buddhafield festival in Somerset. It was a beautifully free and open place to be with plenty of opportunities to grow, learn, laugh, stretch and be stretched.
I went to early morning ashtanga yoga classes with Joey Miles and enjoyed cups of chai with my yin teacher Norman. I caught the end of a Shamanic Journeying workshop where I was supposed to identify my power animal. No idea. I furrowed my brow when I realised I missed the ‘how to stop frowning’ workshop. I looked deep into strangers’ eyes and said what I felt in my heart.
But for me, the highlight was Mahasukha’s singing workshops. In essence, he’s a smiley bloke with a drum who teaches people songs with nice harmonies. But really, he does so much more than that.
On Friday evening there were maybe 300-400 people at his Beauty of Mantra workshop. He announced that we’d be singing the Padmasambhava* mantra:
Om ah hum vajra guru pema siddhi hung
You can listen to a recording of it on his website but it’s not the same as doing it surrounded by hundreds of people.
Split into groups according to our singing voice, he taught us the tune each group would sing. And then we were off.
Now I know that singing and chanting makes me happy. I’ve talked about it often enough on this blog but there’s a deeper connection to voice. I know for me it offers a release, a connection to emotion held within my body.
People sang with heart and I got lost within the words and tune. My voice became stuck. It’s like it catches in your throat and the only way through is to allow the emotion out. Tears fell. I didn’t know why I was racked with sobs, but they came. At times I was able to come back to the music, and at other times, the tears were the focus.
People were going up to the front, doing prostrations and lighting candles and incense in front of a statue of Padmasambhava. The candle light lit tear tracks down people’s cheeks. And you knew there was no need to hide. We were in a safe space and it was ok to let it out. The last time I felt anything close to this was when I was at Amma’s ashram in Kerala (read about it).
I’m not sure how long we sang for but at the end, there was a feeling that we’d all been through a cathartic experience and there was hugging and smiling. There were words and silence. We’d created something beautiful together. Harmonies created by humanity. We were singing sounds that have been sung by cultures and communities for centuries.
The next day I went to Mahasukha’s Soulful Singing workshop and we sang South African songs – one sung during apartheid that translated as ‘white men, we are coming’. It was Nelson Mandela’s birthday so we sang his song (hear song). Again, it was all stirring stuff but it felt much more joyful and celebratory. People let go. There were beaming smiles. We moved our bodies in ways that felt good and natural.
I took a short video and you can watch it here: Morning workshop. You may need to turn your screen 90 degrees…
Towards the end of the festival, I was sitting drinking chai with friends around a fire and Mahasukha came into the tent and sat nearby. We got chatting and he spoke of his enjoyment in bringing people together and the connectedness that singing creates. He said, “As clichéd as it sounds, the harmonies create harmony.”
And they really do. The human connection creates happiness. It doesn’t matter if you get a note wrong or you come in at the wrong moment. You’re simply held in the space by everyone around you – whether you’re bawling your eyes out or grinning like you’ve never grinned before.
I guess that’s Buddhafield in a nutshell.
Have you been to Mahasukha’s workshops? What are your experiences? Feel free to comment below.
Learn more about his workshops in Brighton.
*Padmasambhava is a central character in Tibetan Buddhism who is said to have brought Buddhism from India to Tibet.
Today I am sharing with you some of my recent ponderings.
I like being upside down. And I would love an Iyengar swing at home. It could be the norm. We could all hang upside down and natter about our days. We could even sleep upside down! This would avoid duvet wars and accidental encroachment onto the wrong side of the bed (yes, I am settling into a life of co-habitation).
I appreciate that eating meals upside down would be a challenge but our spines would be so long! All that space between vertebrae! I really do love creating space.
Those Grange Hill kids were onto something (watch their video). As well as space in our bodies, let’s try and create space in our diaries. It’s easy to fill our time with things that aren’t necessary and don’t serve us. Let’s take a step back and think about our priorities. Who do I really want to spend time with? Will this conversation/coffee/day trip/film about strippers* make me happy?
From an early age I’ve loved music. I never missed Bruno Brooks and his mullet on Radio 1 and I’m one of those people that has a song for everything. I grew up with lots of music in the house and it doesn’t take much for me to burst into song.
A yoga class is not the time for singing pop. But I find it so hard to resist! When I ask students, “how deep is your breath?” I hear the Bee Gees (or Take That) asking about love. When there’s talk of letting go, I’m transported to Disney’s land of ice and Elsa.
I say no to singing in class and filling diaries. But I say yes to bats and making space.
What will you say yes to?
*Magic Mike XXL is on general release at cinemas across the country. I said no.