Listen for the birds...

I've been teaching yoga for almost 20 years, practicing for twenty-five years. This practice has been part of my life for half of my life. This past week my friend Nina and I have been leading a Yin Yoga Immersion for people who want to deepen their understanding of Yin Yoga. As I always do, I over-prepared, over-worried, over-thought every aspect of this training. I prepared a power point presentation. I included extra articles in the manual at the last minute. I lost sleep worrying that it wouldn't be good enough. The most important thing for me was to do right by these people who had entrusted me, enlisted me, to teach them what I know.

One of the things I have learned as a teacher is that I can only teach what I know. I can only share the experiences that live in my own body and my own heart.  When I was a new teacher I tried to regurgitate things I'd heard other people say, things that kind of made sense to me, but not completely. It didn't work. I felt discordant in my own body when I shared that stuff. It was like walking barefoot on a floor that feels clean but you can tell it isn't because every once in a while you feel crumbs underneath your heel or big toe and you have to stop, bend down and brush off the crumbs.

Teaching what is embodied is like walking on a clean floor. It is smooth, clean, and comfortable. I'm aware, as I sit in front of these ten bodies who've made time and given energy to be part of this immersion that Nina and I created, that they want to learn. I am aware that it is our job to give them what they want. Over the last three long days of training I have shared some of my power point about Yin Yoga. I have taught classes, workshopped postures, and offered my thoughts on Yin Yoga philosophy. I have loved sharing what I know.

When I think of my teachers, the ones who have made me go deeper into my own practice of life, not just yoga, I think about the little jewels they have shared with me. I think about the snippets of wisdom from their own lives they have imparted and how seemingly random they were to me at the time that they shared them, but how they have revisited me in my own life often and unexpectedly.

Last night at the end of our long day I had a flash moment of homework for the class. It was unplanned and seemingly arbitrary in the moment I shared it, but I shared it anyway. "Listen for the birds at least three times between tonight and tomorrow" I instructed the class. In the moment, I second-guessed myself; I thought to myself, these people must think I'm crazy.

This morning I woke up and lay in my warm bed under the sheets opening and closing my eyes a few times to get connected to the light and I listened for the birds. I heard the robins that live outside our window. They are so loud they wake me in the summer when we sleep with the windows open. I came downstairs to make coffee and sit on the couch and I listened again. I could hear the chickadees chirping outside and the seagulls down by the lake. Hearing the birds made me so happy. It always does. And then I knew why I'd assigned that homework.

Listening for the birds

About ten years ago I was on a family nature walk in Seward Park. My daughter Lucia was about four-years-old at the time and the naturalist leading the hike was a young man who looked barely out of high school. I was a little disappointed. I wondered what I could learn from this young guy. The docent took us along the path pointing out the different barks on the trees, poison oak, variations of ferns, and moss. Then he stopped suddenly and became completely silent. We all followed suit, even the kids. After about a minute he said, "No matter where you are in the world, if you stop, be still, and listen, you will hear birds. Even in New York City," he went on, "birds will be there. Birds are everywhere. You just have to stop, be still, and listen."

I've followed that naturalist's words at least once a week for the last ten years. He's right. In New York, Chicago, Seattle, Spokane, Tacoma..... the birds are always there.  Today I am completing the fifth day of a meditation training.* This particular training is about coming back to our true nature by welcoming all our experiences. We get to this, in part by opening all of our senses. The training is at a beautiful retreat center in Northern California.  There are deer everywhere, wild turkeys, snakes, lizards, jackrabbits, hawks, owls, and so many other birds. For this training, most of the time we're sitting or lying down so every morning for the last five days I've gotten up at 6:30am to walk the hills to prepare my body for the long days of stillness. At 6:30am, when I leave my dorm, the sky is still dark and the sounds of the birds are loud and clear. They too might still be just waking up. In the dark, I can't see any of the other creatures, but I can hear the birds.

As I walked the hills at sunrise these last few days, as the sun illuminated the golden grass of the hills, I have spotted deer and a few times, a lucky jackrabbit. I stepped on a snake yesterday and the squirrels, lizards, and hawks have been everywhere. This morning I noticed that, as my visual senses came alive with the sunrise, I stopped hearing the sounds of the birds. So as I got to the top of a hill, I closed my eyes and stopped. I stood still. I heard the wind in the grass. I heard the highway in the distance. But I couldn't hear any birds. Just as I began to worry, I heard one.  Then I heard many. They were there. They always are.


*Integrative Restoration Yoga Nidra is a form of yoga and mediation. If you're interested in learning more, sign up for one of Laura's workshops at The SweatBox Loft.