Deep Kyoto has published my write-up on the Vipassana course. What isn't stated in the article is that I didn't finish. Sitting more than 10 hours a day took its toll. I had a few moments the first day where I wondered if I'd make it, yet day two was a tad easier, and I had no doubt that I would stick it out. But my knee had other ideas.
I've been nursing a Baker's cyst for over a year, which had been a nuisance but hadn't limited my activities in any way. But for some reason, last August it began to really hurt, and by mid-month, I had to curb teaching certain yoga poses, could no longer sit seiza. It was fine during the Kumano and Shikoku walks, but hours sitting cross-legged brought about incredible pain.
One of the goals of the Vipassana technique is to realize that pain is fleeting, and will fade eventually if not given too much importance. I could deal with the stiff back and legs, but I thought to ignore an existing medical condition wasn't wise. I decided to watch it and see how it went; pain at the end of the day was understandable, but if I awoke with pain I'd have to reevaluate things.
That morning did come. I continued most of the day in meditation, yet was distracted by incessant thoughts. If I quit, was I weak? That was ego talking. But if I stuck it out to prove something to myself or others, wasn't that ego too? I looked at it from many angles, and found that any action, or its opposing action, were all driven by ego. My feet sank deeper into the sand on the bank of the Rubicon.
I also began to question the reasoning behind such long periods of sitting. Ten hours a day isn't the real issue. Two hour sessions are. To the best of my knowledge, the zen or yoga traditions never sit this long, usually sitting in shorter periods, with breaks or walking meditation between. (One hour zazen sittings aren't unheard of, but I feel that this is less about quality meditation than about 'building character.' Ahem. Within the Zen world, I prefer the "Take It Easy" form of Soto to the "Take it to the Limit" style of Rinzai anyway.) I personally find that anything more than 30 minutes is futile. In the Vipassana meditation hall, there would be silence for the first half hour, then the remaining time was a cacophony of shifting bodies. It seemed no one was able to concentrate anymore. What is the point? (I invite anyone who knows the reason to explain it to me.)
The night before I left, I went for a late night pee. Stepping outside, I startled a large animal, which crashed through the forest somewhere out there in the dark. The high pitched bark that followed told me it was a pair of deer, one calling out to its mate. I was inspired to make my own dash. At the Vipassana center we were segregated by sex, and sworn to uphold silence. I spied my wife on her side of the fence, but couldn't get her attention. Unlike the deer, I'd go alone.
On the afternoon of the 4th day, I was standing on the train platform, not sure whether to go west to Yonago or east to Kyoto. A westbound train came in, and I took it. After days of deprivation my senses were alive, finding beauty in every sight, sound, flavor. The peace I'd felt during the course remained. Yet something nagged. My escape to freedom was a move in the complete opposite direction from what the Buddhists define as 'liberation.' I felt I'd made the right choice regarding the knee, but had the knee given my ego an excuse to get out of a very challenging situation? I continued to beat myself up as the train moved slowly along the Sea of Japan...
On the turntable: King Curtis, "Live at the Fillmore West"
On the nighttable: David Foster Wallace, "Girl with Curious Hair"
Everybody on the train looked exhausted. Granted it was a summertime Friday, but it wasn't yet nine in the morning. Even the school kids, off to some sports event, had their bodies slumped onto one another, a far cry from their frenzied ass-grabbing antics that usually annoys the rest of the commuters. With the grated metal window blinds, the Hankyu car looked like it was transporting cattle.
Miki and I both found ourselves with a rare weekday off, the perfect opportunity to finish the Western end of the TSH. We were pretty careless this time around, no checking of bus schedules as usual, and thus found ourselves stuck for 45 minutes in a bland bedroom town, trying to keep at bay both the heat and the accompanying grumpiness. We finally made it out to the base of Ryuōzan just before lunchtime. Depsite the lighter packs, our legs were still carrying the weight of last week. We walked silently along the trail, through a dead landscape of downed trees, corrogated iron rice fields, and wood shards littering the trail. Yep, we were back in Kansai. Machine cluttered farms lined the trail, above perpetual signs of road work and the industrial metal clang coming from further out in the hills. It was as if the world was a film set being constructed. Passing through a heavy anti-boar gate, we came to a small pond whose surface was nearly covered by lilipads. They formed a triangle not too dissimilar than the shape of our rice balls, bisected by the slight trace of where a duck had recently swum across. A beautiful blue bird perched on a low branch, then had a brief pre-lunch dip.
We found a hamlet next, where an old farmwoman snoozed in the shade and a lizard fell from a sheer stone wall with a 'smack!' A small white truck was parked along the next forest road, with more loud banging just beyond. Intending to gather police evidence, I took a photo of the license plate, switched my camera to video, in order to shoot these men as they dumped their trash. To my surprise, the racket they were making was them instead cleaning the forest. Beyond them, middle-aged couples were filling jugs with water spilling from a forest spring. Here the trail gave us our only climb of the day, which seemed to annoy our calves until they were appeased by the level ridge that followed. It was a straight and narrow path, past massive cemeteries and the odd stones marking bigger, more important men. (Are we truly equal after death?) The trail dropped past a large granite TSH marker sitting before a nature center. And here we lost the trail for the first time. There were quite a few paths with different names, which has been our curse since entering Osaka-fu. We chose the one that seemed to match our guide book, following it up a hill until we saw a sign that pointed back the way we'd come, reading, "Start of Tokai Shizen Hōdō, 0.5 km."
S-say what?
Apparently we'd finished about 2 minutes before at that big grey stone. It was the perfectly ironic way to finish, missing the marker as we had done dozens of times before. But it was a major letdown. After 431 km, over 12 months, there were no hugs, no high fives, no moments of relieved smug satisfaction. Instead, we'd marked the occasion with our all too familiar, where the hell is the trail? It is only in my role as a yoga teacher that I can appreciate the perfection here. How often are we focussed on reaching a goal, getting far more caught up in the idea of finishing than in the appreciation of the process. Just this morning, Miki had said she would've been fine not to complete this walk, and she wondered why I'm so attached to my desire to finish. I wonder that too, actually. Today's walk in particular felt spurred on toward its completion, rather than enjoyed. How poetic then, that when we finished, we weren't actually there.
Profoundly disappointed, we moved along toward Minō Waterfall like a couple of deflated balloons. There we stood in the spray, feeling it on our faces, arms out in supplication...
On the turntable: Chet Baker Trio, "The Touch of your Lips"
Days that are multi-segmented tend to go on and on. Today, I've already played drums for a set of Indian devotional music, had lunch with a handful of yoginis, and met with Roger to discuss the next film that we hope to make. Now I'm moving along the Yonago Expressway toward my former home. It has been raining all day, but there's a different quality to the rain up here. The mountains across whose tops we touch wear heavier shrouds than do those in Kansai. These clouds, along with the fallibility of memory, blur somewhat the landmarks recognizable from a dozen years of following this route.
It's past dark when I arrive. Tim meets me at the station and we drive out to a bar out under the trees of Yumigahama. There's an open mike thing going on, where musicians can revolve on and off the stage. Entering, it looks like a Denny's that has a stage at one end of the room. Most of the regulars have guitar cases, and have a distinctive working class look. Rather than Denny's, it now feels more like a roadhouse, this big open room in a concrete building that sits alone on a quiet highway. There are many posters for the Air Self Defense Force, which isn't too shocking since the base is just up the road. I get a beer and start to talk with a couple of middle-aged men in baseball caps. I quickly find that they, like most of the other men in here, are all in the Air Force. As they're all in their 40s and 50s, I'd guess they're career military. I'm talking to a guy they call "Cherry" who spent much of last year in Iraq. We chat for awhile, then go sit by the stage. Tim's brother-in-law is up, looking very John Doe-like in his slicked hair, demin shirt, and jeans. He's really hammering out some hard blues, on an acoustic guitar that's as thick as Texas Toast. I'm surprised that his fingers aren't shredded, with the force that he's striking the strings. After a few songs, he's done, and this cycle repeats again and again, as each musician goes through a short set of 15 minutes or so. Tim and I go up last, well past 11. I'm on drums, he alternates between guitar and bass, and it soon becomes understood that we've become the house band. Other musicians come up and join us for a song or two. We tend to stick to 60s rock and blues -- Jimi, CCR, Clapton, and lots of Beatles. Tim wants me to sing, but I'm happy on drums tonight, though I take a phrase or two of lyrics when he gets stuck, then making it up when I'm stuck. Finally at the end I take the mike for "Don't Let Me Down," which I belt out 'til I'm hoarse. We stretch it out for about 20 minutes, and basically everyone in the bar comes onstage to solo, including the owner, screaming away on his sax. Then, after three hours, we're done. I haven't gotten behind a drum kit for a few years and my arms ache. Yet sessions like this are the greatest fun, much better than the monotonous drone work with a band that regularly gigs. The quality of musicianship here is very high, and with no rock 'n' roll pretense whatsoever. As we walk out the door it is close to 2 am, and it suddenly dawns on me that back in the States, it is Armed Forces Day.
Sunday starts late with breakfast at (Dis)Gusto. And what follows is a typical day in the 'Nog, of just hanging around and seeing who comes by. We have a three hour lunch at a small cafe that overlooks a small canal called Kamogawa, ironically. I used to look out at herons in this canal when I lived beside it back in the mid-90s. As always happens when I go back there, I run into people I know. It's a small city, and I during my 12 years there, I was one of only about 20 western expats. Stephen comes over from Matsue, and we gossip awhile about old friends, including one who died last year in India. Which gets me thinking about ghosts. Tim and I drive around. For him, we are running errands, but for me, every square kilometer holds a memory. The majority revolve around my late son. We eventually go see my ex-wife and see her new baby. She's moving to Vietnam next month and this may be the last time we meet for a long time. We visit her mother as well and it is a warm visit, the three of us like old war buddies, sharing memories of our dead and what we've been doing to keep on going. Later too, at my old fave Kashmir for a curry, I feel a dark feeling, of people who once belonged to this place but are no longer around.
The next morning I'm taking a train back toward Kansai. I follow the sea toward Tottori City, passing places that still have an air of familiarity but have now aged to become strangers. Along the way stand many of the schools where friends once worked. And it hits me. Last night I was talking how there is a certain heaviness in Kyoto, which I attribute to the ghosts of that city's long and violent history. Yet my own ghosts still reside up here in San-in, ghosts of people now removed from the context in which I've ever placed them. They exist only memory now, where I still hear their footfalls and the rattle of their chains.
On the turntable: "We're A Happy Family"
On the nighttable: Lesley Downer, "On the Narrow Road"
On the reel table: "Calcutta" (Malle, 1969)
I arrived in Akihabara around lunch time, too early for my meet with Zach. I sat in the sun in front of the station for awhile, my mind pulled back and forth from William Weston's descriptions of 19th century Japanese Alps, to the fascinating characters of 21st Century Tokyo. Many of the people were the stereotyped Akiba characters I'd expected. Strangely, nearly all the women I saw had really big breasts, and in their high heels, looked to be in a perpetual state of pitching forward.
Zach showed up, and fueled by a pizza lunch, we set out to follow the Kanda River across the city. Most of it was along or under busy streets, but eventually we found ourselves walking a berm lined with cherry trees. This berm took us away from the river and around the Imperial Palace's western boundary. We discovered our mistake late, but just kept on heading west, past the squatting frog-shaped Canadian Embassy, past Kanze's Sogetsu Hall next door, and on into Aoyama where we caught a train to Shimokitazawa and some fine Microbeers.
The next morning was an early start to Nikko. Just off the train, Zach and I moved through the forest, past lone Jizo under the high trees, and past rows of devas guarding cliffs. There is such a solid grounding energy there, with the mountains and water and very tall trees. We found a small temple dedicated to En-no-Gyoja, which led to us a trail head we would have missed otherwise. This was the path to Nyoho-zan, a climb that is a whole lot of up. It never really levels off at all, and is pretty punishing for the calves. Most of my recent hikes have been along roads and paths and were therefore pretty low. Getting up high was a reminder of different trees and vegetation, especially the birches, stunning white against all the new green. The vegetation in Kanto is different than in Kansai, and I spent most of the walk marveling at new shapes and colors. A long trench led us far below the mountain floor, the high grass that lined it waving as we passed. Some of this had been smoothed out and used by deer for their naps. We followed suit, flattening out a good lunch spot, with the views of lakes and other peaks further out. Moving on, we passed the only other two hikers we'd see, though later we'd find reminders that others had come before. Close to the top, the mountain's vegetation fell away to become tall spires of rock. A small plague had been hammered into one high formation, telling of a climber (or climbers) who's died here in October 1958. It was an ominious introduction to the rock field to follow, which required a sideways walk against the steep side, shoes succumbing to gravity and sliding every few steps. Once across, we were rewarded with a view of hell itself, down into an immense valley which was hundreds of feet directly below. Looking over into he abyss, I could feel my own nether parts trying to retreat into my body, and taking that first step away from the edge was to move feet suddenly heavy and firmly fixed to the ground. The dark earth and black rocks gave this place the name Kuroiwa, a col that seemed as if it would just break off and fall into space at any moment. The sound of falling rocks and landslides was constant through the fifteen minutes or so that we'd been up there, adding to the ominous feel. Across from us, long slabs of snow were melting into the valley, dropping as waterfalls for hundreds of feet. There also appeared to be a cave sealed in ice. The peak still rose well above, but the remaining snow and the late afternnoon conspired from letting us summit. We turned and went across the rock field again, a little more quickly now. Upon reaching the other side, I could finally exhale. At 2295m, I'd climbed higher than I'd been in years. And though I'm no stranger to walking over 20 km, I really paid for those first 10. But while the feet soon forget, the mind retains: the feel of the air, the smell of trees, that peaceful feeling of gratitude. I need to get up high again soon.
The remaining time in Nikko entailed lots of good food, hot baths, and sadistic massage chairs. Five year old Eli enjoyed the latter most of all, his face a mix of wonder and joy, with just a dash of fear. One morning he and Zach and I hiked smooth boulders along a fast moving river, under the watchful eye of a hundred Jizo covered in moss. Leaving the river, we'd marvel at the height of trees, at stones with just the right heft for throwing, at shrines acting as portals to those places where kami dwell. The final morning, I did yoga in a weathered Tendai temple hundreds of years old, planting my feet firmly and twisting up like all those wonderful trees outside.
Back in rainy Tokyo Tuesday night to meet up with Taiko Tari. The next morning was clear and offered promise. After a breakfast of pancakes on her balcony, we headed west, about halfway to Takao, where we'd planned to walk an old village and enjoy an onsen. But we arrived at the station to heavy rains and a 45 minute wait for the bus. Plan B was an Italian lunch in Shinjuku at Fungo, though I saw no one playing baseball at all.
Rain accompanied me all the way back to Kyoto. Surprisingly, I got a clear view of Fuji when the clouds parted, to reveal a hint of high mountains to come...
On the turntable: Southside Johnny, "Grapefruit Moon"
On the nighttable: Eric Rohmer, "Six Moral Tales"
http://www.deepkyoto.com/yoga-in-kyoto/
"Michael was kind enough to introduce me on Deep Kyoto a few weeks back, so it’s about time I introduce myself and Kyoto yoga. I ran my own studio up in deep Tottori before moving to Kyoto about four years ago in order to teach. The scene here is somewhat new, but is growing quickly. The Yoga Boom of a few years back went a long way in bringing awareness of yoga to the Japanese people. This was the third such boom here, and unlike the first two which introduced a more traditional Indian-style yoga, this one seemed to have originated with American yoga, including all its flash and fashion and celebrity teachers. Studios began to pop up monthly , many of which have already gone. The passing of the boom is actually a good thing, with the better teachers and dedicated students having stuck it out. Vinyasa-style flow yoga (AKA Power Yoga) represents the majority of what is being taught here, although other types are starting to make themselves known. Internationally known ‘master teachers’ are beginning to include Kansai as a regular stop, introducing their own individual perspectives, and bringing a much needed infusion to this still-young scene. In addition, the yogic lifestyle is definitely catching on, with associated trends such as diet, body work, and eco-friendly living getting much attention recently.
Most exciting for me personally is the local Indian music scene, composed of a handful of very active musicians. The majority pass the Winter in India, enjoying the mild weather while sitting and learning at the feet of their teachers. With the return of Spring they too have returned, eager to show their new chops. Flyers announcing upcoming gigs are everywhere. One large event in particular will be held over two days in June, at Myorenji on the 6th and at Kurodani’s wonderfully named Ei-u-in on the 7th. Most of this city’s local talent will be performing. Details can be found here.
As for my yoga, I teach an Iyengar-inspired style, after studying with Tias Little in my native New Mexico. Besides being licensed in his Prajna Yoga, I also hold licenses in the more spiritual and energy-based Sivananda system, as well as in Phoenix Rising Yoga, a style that attempts to bring awareness to the use of the body in everyday life. These styles, my associated training in Ashtanga and Thai Yoga Therapy, and years of Japanese meditation practices, all inspire my teaching. I do quite a number of workshops or events each month, including occasion collaborations with my wife Miki, a local Shiatsu practitioner. For information, please check my homepage.
I look forward to the growth of Kyoto yoga. A couple of teacher trainings have begun in Kansai this month, promising to give voice to a new generation of teachers who are sure to translate this ancient practice into their own, unique vernacular."
On the turntable: Grateful Dead, "1969-06-08, Fillmore West"
We arrived at Jingu-ji just before dark. Any temples with this moniker are the last remnants of the old Shinto-Buddhist connection which nearly became extinct with the coming of Meiji. This Jingu-ji, just south of Obama city, is perhaps the most famous, and is host to the Omizu-okuri festival every March 2nd. An acquaintance had a home just below the temple, and after a warming cup of tea in front of the Franklin stove, we walked out into the cold night. A few hundred people were gearing up, standing in front of the temple. A couple sections had been roped off, and at their centers a large pile of logs had been stacked, covered over by their soft needles. The air in this mountain valley was clear and revealed many stars, a crescent moon. Chanting had been going on for some time, punctuated by the occasional bellow of a conch shell. At seven, a bright light appeared within the main hall of the temple, and suddenly, a man shrouded in white appeared from within, carrying a massive fireball, which looked like a two meter smudge of sage lit aflame. Fire roared up into the rafters, brushing the curtains and punching out at the crowd. It's incredible that the whole place didn't go up. These shrouded men (covered head to toe in white and looking a little too similar to Klansmen) were accompanied by an entourage of yamabushi, who ran through a series of chants and mudras, twirling swords and axes, and even shooting arrows dangerously into the crowd. Then the pyre was lit, flames quickly shooting 10 meters up, in a swirling attempt to touch the stars. (Watching the upper limits of a fire this size and the shapes it makes reveals why we say "tongues of flame.") The wind was down, but the heat was belching up an incredible amount of sparks, going up like fireworks and coming down like grey snow. The heat also sent up sections of cypress needles the size of human hands, which would twirl slowly and teasingly like a bully, to fall down over the crowd whose collective volume would increase with their fear. The shrouded men brought the flaming bush back out through the crowd, who due to the heat began to push back, creating a dangerous chain reaction where the lot of us were collectively heaved backward, like the undulating movement of fire, of water. I knew then why I'd been warned not to wear my fleece hat. The fireball was carried down toward the river, and the crowd began to move toward the pyre left behind to light the goma sticks we carried. These were a length of thick rope tied together with four sticks of gomagi (a word that Ken Rodgers tells me has Indian roots). The crowd was still dangerously pushing, but this time toward the flames. Like everyone else, I fended for balance, until I noticed some open space to my right, so pushed my way out of the crowd. The was no perimeter to keep us in, and I couldn't figure out why everyone stayed herded together like that. I walked easily toward a small building which upon closer view contained an old well cut into the forest floor. This was the source of the water drawn earlier that had been purified by the flame. I took a sip. Very sweet. There was a huge tree just in front, its trunk old and twisted and swirling in the opposite direction than the flames had earlier on. Pure shamanistic magic this. Miki and our friends found me here, Juri leaning in close to the tree, sticking her face into a hollow knot like a deep kiss.
We then lit our gomaki from the incredibly hot embers in front of the tree and followed the crowds down the steps and alongside the river. What I saw before me was hundreds of people stretched down the river carrying torches as if looking for Frankenstein's monster. The yoga teacher in me suggests a more spiritual metaphor, of people using this sacred fire to light up the dark places of the soul, in order to root out the beasties that lurk there. But I know that the majority of the people here were taking part in this event for less serious reasons. And why not, there were snacks and cold beer waiting back on the tour bus. Our own group of a dozen had once again found each other somehow. Two of our friends had wrapped themselves in white cloth in protection from the heat, and we quickly dubbed them the Zoroastrians. We all followed the crowd upriver. I was amazed at how careless people were, considering they had 20cm flames extending from their outstretched arms. They'd turn quickly to shoot photos, or suddenly change direction. Beside minding both flanks, you had to take care not to trod on the many pieces of wood which had fallen to the ground and were still lit. Along the sides of the path were iron pots set up for people to drop their torches into. The further we'd go, the more had collected, the cumulative flames getting higher and higher. Miki and I laughed at one middle-aged woman looking quite panicked as the flames burned closer to her hand. Another man with an even shorter torch walked very deliberately. My own had burned pretty fast, and when the flame was about 15 inches, I mock run, holding my flame aloft like it's the Olympic torch. When it got down to 8 inches, I'm running for real, wanting to take this to the end, not wanting to add my flame to the others littering the road, which by now looks out of the Paris riots of '68. And how much this is like how we live our lives, trying to burn, burn, burn, trying to draw the energy out of every endeavor, and refusing to give up before those around us. Yet our flames will burn out when they will, and for those whose lives burn out of control, there's always the choice to let go, be it the literal corporeal release of suicide, or opting for the more peaceful (though challenging) path of transcendence, where we get to keep our flesh, yet must alter our relationship with it. I finally reach the end to find the crowd slowly funneling through a Torii arch and down a path to the river's bank. I mentally yell at them to let me pass, to let me add my fire to that already burning high and hot beside the water. Then I suddenly realize that we were never meant to carry them that far, and I extinguish my torch in a pail of water. I move with the crowd to the fireside, where the yamabushi are carrying out more rituals. They then cross a bridge to the other side of the river, where the head priest pours the purified water into the fast moving current. From here, an underground stream will carry the water to Nara's Nigatsudo where a similar ceremony will take place on March 13. The water will have moved along a ley line that takes it past Kurama, Kamigamo, Shimogama, Jonangu, and beyond Nara to the sacred sites further on, Tenkawa, Kumano Hongu, marking the coming of spring, as it has for 1300 years. We watch awhile the rushing water tinted red by fire. Then we turn and slowly head back down river. Like fire, like water, and like Spring, always returning.
On the turntable: Kokoo, "Super Nova"
On the nighttable: Swami Buddhananda, "Moola Bandha: The Master Key"
On the reel table: "A Man Called Horse" (Silverstein, 1970)
After class I set off up the shopping arcade, looking for a place to have a quick coffee. Some folks are dashing around wearing blue happi, gearing up for some sort of festival. I like Osaka, there's so much life going on here, with little of the mothball smell that can often pervade Kyoto. I find a place that offers cups for 250 yen, so I grab a seat and get a cafe au lait. The decor hasn't changed in decades, and most of the clientele were probably my age when it was built. One middle-aged guy seems to be taking his elderly mother out for breakfast, and she looks thrilled. A greasy haired loner type sits across from me and disappears into a book. I too read awhile. I check my watch from time to time, then head back outside, figuring the Indian place must be open by now. It is. I order a curry and sit in front of a poster of some curvy actress in a sari, standing beside an armor-clad actor who is a dead ringer for David Hasselhoff. A shelf nearby sells candles in the shape of seated Buddhas. The perfect expression of tapas.
After lunch, I go underground and catch the train. Back in town, I find I still have an hour to kill. It's reasonably sunny, so I sit on the banks of the Kamo, and read abit. On my iPod, the Silver Jews start up a song called "Bring on the Clouds," and so beckoned, they come. It gets chilly quickly, but I read on. There are many walkers out today, going down one bank. and presumably up the other. One guy wearing Cat in the Hat gloves asks me in polite textbook English if I could please tell him the time. This used to happen back in the 'Nog, but this is the first time I've given an impromptu English lesson here in Kyoto. I shake him off soon enough and out on the river in front of me, a beautiful mallard shakes a tail feather of his own. I go back to my book, reading about the connection between Yoga and Buddhistic Shamanism, but I'm tired of reading about Yoga and Buddhistic Shamanism. Instead, I watch the river awhile. Some young guy descends a set of stone steps to the water's edge, and due to my reading material, for a moment my eyes are tricked into believing I'm actually in Varanasi, watching someone go down the ghat to do his daily ablutions.
I bike over to the studio, change clothes, get out my mat. I'm leading a workshop on Vinyasa jump-throughs, which is far off my usual yogic radar. I haven't even done Ashtanga for years, let alone teach it. Someday I'd love to get in front of a room full of Ashtangis and put them in an hour long Tadasana, just to watch them twitch. The trick to this workshop is that I'm teaching building blocks, rather than the jump-through itself. No one is expected to master this difficult pose in a single day anyway, so I'm basically giving them months of homework. Back in my English teaching days, I'd often get students who wanted me to teach them only"English for airports" or "English for shopping." Today is like this, but I'll be teaching them skills they can use in dozens of poses, and show them the importance of creativity and control rather than the usual overemphasis on muscular power. As the sign out front says, "Yoga for Life." (Though Andrew Sensei is right in joking, "Shouldn't it be 'Yoga for Death?'" Transcendence baby.)
I'm surprised to find that one of the attendees is a guy I met at the ashram in India two years ago. We chat awhile afterward, then Miki (who assisted me) and I bike quickly down to a different studio for a workshop on Nada, the yoga of sound. Ty Burhoe is leading it, and I know him since he did the music for Tias' DVD, plus a year ago he played tabla with Shen, who was my own teacher for a very short time. Ty's workshop is good, with a light humorous touch. For the second half, his drumming is the BGM for a vigorous Vinyasa class that I hadn't expected. I'm pretty pooped at the end. After a short break, he's joined by Sarod player Steve Oda for a mellow night of ragas. I'm too tired to sit up so I slump across a bolster, pointing my legs at the musicians, wiggling my toes in time to the music as if I'm conducting it. And drift into a minor samadhi that's all mine...
On the turntable: Chet Baker, "In Tokyo"
On the nighttable: David Chadwick, "Thank You and OK!"
On the reel table: "Round Midnight" (Tavernier, 1986)
So it is that I often take my teachering out onto the streets, as a deputized member of some non-existent morals police. I personally despise rudeness, and despite my strong belief in cultural relativism, I expect everyone to behave within certain guidelines. I'm not the only person who does this. I have friends in Tokyo who can't abide by pushing and shoving onto trains, to the extent that every commute becomes a Greek epic. As a bicycle commuter, what peeves my pet most is people who don't look where they are walking. Some folks simply dart straight out of a shop, some dawdle, others turn corners blindly. (When I become king of this land, my first decree will be that all feet and eyes must point in the same direction.) Cell phones and iPods have made the situation worse in that they've cut off an additional couple senses. When I encounter one of these ambulatory offenders, I will often give their arm a light brush as I pass by on my bike. I realize this is childish. This admittedly seems un-Buddhist, un-Yoga, but my roots stretch back into the deeper soil of the punk ethic of my youth. Besides, I am simply hoping that the person will wake up to the fact that they need to be a little more careful, a little more aware. And who better to teach awareness than a yoga teacher?
So yesterday, I ride up behind two men walking side by side, rudely blocking all but a small part of sidewalk. I pass to the left, brushing my shoulder against one of them, who is startled.
It is only then that I notice he's holding a white and red striped cane.
Today, I am the one who doesn't see.
Clarity. Awareness...
On the turntable: Cicala Mvta, "Deko Boko"
On the nighttable: Leigh Norrie, "Japan: 6000 miles on a Bicycle"
After a poor night's sleep, I walk under the shade of that huge sprawling Fig Tree near the train station, moving toward a brunch with Sheryl. It's fantastic to see her, and we have a good time catching up, though it's hard to cover 14 years in a couple hours. As we talk, a group of four hippie boomers hold a small impromptu parade, smiling their stoned smiles and flashing peace signs and holding placards saying, "Impeach." My reaction was the same as when I saw Oliver Stone's latest film, "W." Why now? Where were you 4 years, no, 6 years ago? Don't let your egos fool you into thinking you still matter. They are later replaced by a real parade of camouflaged ROTC clones and old jeeps driven by aging vets. Is this Armed Forces Day? Veteran's Day? Boy, I've been away from America a long long time...
After brunch, I take a taxi up to San Marcos Pass and the White Lotus Foundation. Here I'd spend the week, studying Thai Yoga Therapy. While I developed new skills, I would be living a porous schedule, with ample time to hike, read, meditate on and around big rocks and trees, and take brisk, exhilarating swims in local watering holes. The weather favored the latter, staying up in the high 80s (F) most of the time. Night brought on the winds. The first night they were especially strong, making sleep scarce. (Poor sleep being the theme of the trip, actually.) I could hear the wind coming from the valley below, roaring up the ridge where my yurt stood. Through the glass nipple roof, I would watch a tree bough thick as a Volkswagon bob and weave only a few feet above my bed. The constant gusts sounded like a dozen bears tearing through the canvas. A few BIG gusts shook the floor like an earthquake. With these Santa Ana winds often come fires. A few days into the week, moneyed Montecito was alight. Daylight hours were marked by the near constant thump of helicopters flying over, huge monsters filling up with water at nearby Lake Cachuma, which they'd then drop onto the flames. Looking up was like being an amateur entomologist; the various aircraft an intriguing variety of insect shapes. From my mountain perch, the sky over the sea was smoky, hiding the Channel Islands entirely. Ironically, the sky up here is a flawless blue everyday. Nights are even more starting, the moon highlighting the landscape in Day for Night clarity, everything shot through a gauze filter like those old films. Every cloud, every rock is visible. Animals take advantage of this light, and when the winds finally cease, I can hear them creeping around my yurt throughout the night. I look for tracks in the morning, but the ground is too dry from lack of rain. One afternoon, while hiking on the ridge above the yurt village, I find a variety of tracks in a soft patch of sand. There are an intermingling of deer and skunk prints, plus the huge paw shape of either a bobcat or mountain lion. My sleep is even worse after finding these, though I eventually drift off to the sound of crickets singing in time to Miles Davis on my computer.
I read a lot, do plenty of yoga, and learn how to give a Thai massage. The last night, I play my shakuhachi awhile in the underground kiva (formerly a bomb shelter), and take part in a ceremony led by a Yanqi Shaman. The next day I'm off to LA. Near Ventura, there is a spot where I always seem to see dolphins. On this beautiful day, there is dolphin activity all along the southbound PCH. I get dropped off at Urth Cafe in Beverly Hills, where I reconfirm stereotypes as I wait for Gordo. I haven't seen him in 5 years, a significant period of time during which I got divorced, changed careers, moved cities, and married again. An hour-long monologue fueled by strong coffee just about covers it all. Gordo's own life jelled during this same five-year period, and he fills me in as we drive toward a setting sun whose patented beauty could only be created by this city's smog. LA drivers obviously spend loads of time in their cars, and seem so at home in them, in the way that their eyes are off the road and hands are off the wheel more than half the time. We have a surreal dinner in a fairly lowbrow Italian place, where the Chianti is bad and the waiters sing Happy Birthday. I love Gordo for taking me here, to a place so obnoxious and bustling and completely at odds with the peaceful quiet I'd had for the previous 9 days. Even after years without contact, a truly good friend will still fuck with your mind.
One last night of bad sleep in a hotel across from LAX, under the white noise of incoming planes. I hop an early flight for San Francisco, flying in an hour over what had taken many days to drive. We pass over Santa Barbara, which shows no apparent fire damage from 30,000 feet. I look at all those central coast mountains, and for the first time in years I remember the word, "Wilderness." I don't usually think of myself as separate from nature or mountains or the forest. But what is spread below me looks rough and wild, its beauty hiding perils like forest fires and big deadly cats. It's like a thick wrinkly comforter on an unmade bed. Somewhere along the way it dawns on me how much like an American I now feel, how these three long trips over eighteen months have made the place seem like home again. Mentally, I'm prepared for the impending return. (Emotionally? Who knows...) As we near SF, I look down on the water of the Bay. Lacking landmarks, I have no real perspective. I could be hundreds of feet up or merely standing at the edge of a small pond lightly tousled by wind. This lack of perspective continues until the plane's shadow appears, rising and rising until it touches our belly.
An hour later it's wheels up again, and a bigger shadow now speeds across the tarmac. My seatmate is Japanese, who demonstrates that uncanny ability to sleep anywhere, a trait seemingly shared by most Asians. Within minutes of takeoff he's out, and for the next 11 hours he does a lovely impression of an angler fish, head back, mouth open. When this entertainment grows thin, I keep busy with my books and videos, breaking away from the mono-view of seascape that begins immediately upon leaving the fatherland. We pass half a day in tracing a high arc above Alaskan islands toward the little happy land where the mono-views are in the politics...
On the turntable: Velvet Underground, "Live at End Cole Avenue"
On the nighttable; Donald Richie, "The Films of Akira Kurosawa"
In the rapidly fading light, I head north, following the Rio Chama flowing yellow with Cottonwoods. The moon is up, a slim crescent flanked by two stars. I keep a close eye out for elk, who move through this area in great numbers. Near the Colorado border stands a low mountain, looking grassy and beautiful. I'd hoped to get here before dark in order to ogle its shape, which had so impressed me last year. I honk my horn as I leave New Mexico, most likely the next time I go back it'll be to live there. It's full dark now, so I grab a bed near the terminus for the Toltec Railroad. The motel owner asks me if I'm in town for the hunt. Next door is a combination Bar and Diner, where I sit and order. The other customers all appear to be hunters, wearing clothes of camouflage or bright orange. A local politician moves amidst the tables, but doesn't approach mine. Somewhat self-consciously, I pull out a book to read. My food arrives, and after a few bites, I begin to gag and hiccup. This happens to me about once or twice a year, if I eat too fast. By getting up and walking around, it usually goes away quickly. I walk to the toilet, and upon a large hiccup, my mouth fills with foam, which I spit into the toilet. I begin to feel better and return to my table. But it happens again, and then again. I apologize to the server, pay my check and go back to my room. The next hour is a comic scene of me sitting on the edge of the tub, reading my book, and spitting foam into the toilet. Finally, I vomit the entire contents of my stomach, tasting again the pesto I had at lunch. My body had really wanted to reject something. Previously, I'd had bizarre hallucinations or intense emotional reactions while doing intensive yogic breathing sessions, especially those related to my throat. The same may have happened here, after all the weekend's pranayama. Or maybe it was being surrounded by the hunters, taking sport in taking life. Who knows? I slept well and quickly, my body exhausted after all the spasms.
The next morning I woke early and continued on through the San Luis Valley. I was surprised to see the Rio Grande running up here. If I grabbed an inner-tube and got on the water, after a few really cold days, I'd pass near my mom's house. High snow coated peaks rose to my right, and eventually the road ran right into them. Clouds sit on these peaks like a cap. I pass old schools and crumbling homesteads. The newer ones surprise me in how remote they are. With such gorgeous views from the picture windows, who needs TV? I'm driving along at 8000 feet, with 14ers right over...there. But from this altitude they look climbable in an hour or so. Up around 10000 feet, patches of snow begin to appear, hiding themselves in the shadows of tall pines. Through the mountain communities now, along a stream running fast and cold. Cord wood is stacked in front of many homes; winter must be coming soon.
I'm in Boulder by lunchtime. My brother is working, so I walk up to the Hill, grab a sandwich at Half Fast, a coffee at Buchanans. The sky over the Flatirons is starting to striate, but much of the street traffic is wearing t-shirts or shorts. I grow tired quickly of watching the Greek posturing here, so I head over to campus and grab a spot of grass. I try to make headway with my book, but I'm too enthralled by the trees, who have already removed their tops, but have modestly retained their flowing yellow skirts.
The next day, election day, I chose to ride a bike along the foothills, dropping down onto quiet streets strewn with leaves. Autumn, which hasn't yet gotten to New Mexico yet, has nearly finished here. The look of everything is pastoral, warm and homey. I wind up on Pearl Street, where I walk and eat and read. Kurt will finish work soon, and we'll get to the business of watching the returns come in...
Obamanos!
On the turntable: Amos Lee
On the nighttable: Dieter Dengler, "Escape from Laos"
I'm up in Santa Fe for about 10 days, finishing up my yoga teacher training with Tias Little. This is the first session they've held at the new studio that they built behind their house. It is a pleasant little space, in the desert outside town. There are no guest facilities out here, so we all commute into town to stay at the Sage Inn. I feel that this breaks up the feeling of peace that usually accompanies spiritual retreats, and I wish we could've stayed at Upaya Zen Center again, with its remote feel and clothing-optional sauna. Don't miss Upaya food at all, which always messes with my digestion. My stomach is funky anyway, air moves howling through my belly during lectures.
The days begin somewhat late, with meditation followed by a 3 hour yoga practice. After the first few days, I feel like someone has taken a crowbar and yanked open my stiff shoulders and closed clavicles. I have a migrane that lasts for three days, and I'm not sleeping well; could be altitude, could be grief trauma being systematically wrenched from my body.
In the afternoons, we all eat lunch in the sun. Afterward, we listen to Tias give talks in front of the moon window, clusters of birds occasionally bisecting the flawless sky behind his head. Inevitably, we'll do another hour or two of asana in the midst of it. This training is billed as "The Subtle Body," delving into psychology, spiritual states, and the parasympathetic nervous system. The most amazing thing about Tias is how he goes into areas well beyond yoga, covering things I'd learned in my vastly different training in India and Vermont. One amazing teacher.
As usual there was good company. The caretaker of the Shaker Museum in New York state. A young woman currently training at Tara Mandala in southern Colorado. An alumnus of Upaya. Plus writers, yoga teachers, body workers. On the final night, as we eat curry and drink wine around a campfire, a comet passes by, so huge and bright and flaming that I momentarily think a plane is crashing down into Santa Fe. We've been blessed.
I go down to my mom's place for a couple days, then am back in town for the weekend. Richard Rosen is doing a workshop on pranayama. I'm a big Tias fan, of course, but Richard is one of the best teachers I've ever seen, weaving history (both Indian and American), sanskrit lessons, anatomical knowledge, jokes, film references, and song lyrics into the mix. This is technically a 12 hour weekend of breathing, but we do our share of asana as well.
On Friday, Halloween, as I go over to get a slice of pizza during a dinner break, I'm held up by a passing train, packed with costumed kids and adults, the former waving, the hands of the latter too busy holding onto long-stemmed glasses. The train blasts its air-horn, filling my body with sound which resonates through my core, hollowed out by an afternoon of deep breathing. The sky above mimics my revved-up brain, first the color of brushfire, later a duller grey like a fogbank rolling in.
The next night, Gino drives up from Albuquerque. We spend far too much time trying to find REI, driving round and around a train station built for trains which don't yet exist. This town is constantly evolving, and a short walk proves that little is where it used to be. Some things hardly change at all. As Gino and I have pints and food up on the Ore House balcony, a couple guys we knew from high school turn up, suddenly and surprisingly. The talk turns to old parties and girlfriends, mixed martial arts bouts and elk hunting. Worlds are definitely colliding here, an atmospheric book end to the comet of a few nights before. Later Gino and I tear ourselves away for coffee at Borders. He's long quit his position as regional manager for the chain, thought the staff doesn't know that. We sit laughing at a staff in frenzy, rushing about to straighten shelves. They'll sweat a few days, waiting for a memo that'll never arrive.
Sunday, the last day, I do 5 hours pranayama and asana with Richard, plus another couple hours in a Tias class packed with 58 people, many of them the being this town's wealthy "painted ladies." By the time I get in the car for the drive up toward Boulder, I'm spent...
On the turntable: Death Cab for Cutie, "Narrow Stairs"
On the nighttable: Barbara Kingsolver, "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle"
'Twas my birthday today. With every passing year, I strongly believe that I didn't grow up, just grew taller...
Cheers to the Tokyo gang who helped me celebrate. More like y'all celebrated, and I sat with my 50 yard samadhi stare, the latest victim of a yogic overdose.
Thanks especially for not singing that goddamn song...
On the turntable: Bob Marley, "Babylon by Bus"
On the nighttable: Paul Auster, "Leviathon"
I did teach this week, but badly. Murphy with his damned Law brought many beginners around this week, so I was forced to demo some pretty flaccid poses. I need to keep healthy. I have begun to teach more around town, and am bringing a couple big guns to Kansai for workshops. Plus Shugendo training season is coming soon. I give myself 6 weeks off from Takeuchi, though I'll try to at least watch practice, keep my feet wet...
Bizarrely, in the days following the injury, mukade began to show up in the house again. (For any yoga students reading this: Remember, this blog is my writing practice, and that last sentence was pure fiction. So please, enjoy that savasana.) One was trying to blend with the sofa, Ninja-style. I didn't want to kill him, so I rigged a mukade catcher (co-designed by W.E. Coyote and the Acme Corporation) consisting of Tupperware, a newspaper, and a tea tray, then I introduced him to our neighbor's yard. The next day, another Ninja had shown great dedication by getting itself boiled alive in our bath. Within moments of this event, fate made me read that centipedes are messengers of Bishamon, the Japanese name for the god of warfare. Wondering if this was some portent regarding my elbow and training conundrum, a few days later we hiked out to the Bishamon Temple in Yamashina to see what he wanted. But the god was strangely silent. He did introduce us to a small figure in an adjacent shrine, that of a Fudo stature wrapped by a great white serpent. In many traditions, including Christian, snakes represent knowledge. (Cue Eve, Tree of Knowledge, apples, etc.) Fudo represents Immovability, Strong Intent. Fudo is the Japanese name for Acala, another Hindu figure, closely related to my Yoga name, "Tejas", meaning spiritual fire and intensity. A CLUE!. I have been quite heady lately, more into books and this Mac than much else. Has my quest for wisdom and ideas begun to constrict my body, snuffing out my desire to train and improve in both yoga and budo? Hmmm.
Walking back along the canal that runs between Biwa and the Nanzenji aqueduct, we see another snake on the high curved concrete embankment. We can't tell whether it was live or dead, but this snake doesn't seem appetizing to the kites above or to the feral cats who haunt these parts in great numbers. OK, I get it Mon. Knowledge is only so palatable to the cats who are more about instinct, or the kites who live by reflex and concentration. Feed the body. Feed the body.
But it still doesn't sink it fully. We leave the canal and climb up toward the crest of Higashiyama, to that place where 6 trails intersect like spokes on the Wheel of Dharma. I try to let memory lead me to the hilltop home where PsychoSanta now lives. It's been 6 months since we put him there. But my head fails me. I give over to the feet, which take us along deer trails and down a fun and hilarious descent to Oku-no-In. But the head's not down yet. It wants to go up to the Amaterasu's cave behind Himukai Jinja. Feet defiantly follows a narrow path between the aerials of new ferns and too a small cemetery, whose grumpy keeper we had the misfortune to meet a week before. We hop the fence and as we cross the unkept grounds, I wait for his voice to call out, "Chopper, sick balls!" The "Stand by Me" reference lingers as we walk the rails down toward Keage.
Body trumps head. Head tries to raise by writing this post. A lovely rain falls outside, lulling ears and eyes toward sleep. Head folds. Body rakes in the winnings...
On the turntable: Duke Ellington, "Centennial Edition"
On the nighttable: John Updike, "Your Lover Just Called"
On the reel table: "Songcatcher" (Maggie Greenwald, 2000)
