Off the mat, into the world.

It is embarrassing to admit how many years it took me to realize that contemplative practice is not just for that time on the mat or cushion. I loved the stretching and movement of yoga and the centering of sitting. I loved the momentary respite from doing and worrying that (sometimes) came during that time. I loved the fleeting peace.

When I first found yoga, it was because I had been a gymnast for twelve years and wanted to continue challenging my body. Under Haverford College gym's buzzing lights, yoga was for playing with postures that came easily to my limber teenage body. It was purely physical, though I found myself enjoying the lying down part that came at the end. Even after I grew curious and started exploring the other limbs of yoga, I still was limited to those moments and the delicious afterglow.

The problem, I learned, was the afterglow only lasted so long. As I began teaching years later, that would be only through my first period of class of wily middle schoolers (if I was lucky).  By lunch time, I was already grasping for the equanimity that seemed so available on my bike ride to work, when I soaked in the sunrise and noted the birds twittering happily along the roadside. If I did nothing else, by 4:15 I found myself flat on my back across the desks wondering where I had gone wrong. I thought I needed to go to more yoga classes, to sit longer, to dig deeper into the literature. How many yoga classes or meditation sessions would it take to keep my sanity? Twice a day?? Four hours at a time??? I couldn't possibly do it.

Luckily, somewhere along the way I learned that I don't have to. It is the short moments of awareness throughout the day- a deep breath as I glance up from my computer, feeling my feet as I walk to the grocery store, listening to the children play in the splash pool- that reconnect me to my center. As Chris McKenna, program director of Mindful Schools, helpfully reminded me again and again this past year, "Short moments of awareness, repeated many times, become autonomic and continuous." Though my last year was a challenging one in the classroom, it was activating these mini refuges for myself- closing my eyes for a breath when the hallway felt particularly chaotic, waiting a moment to talk to the student who had just detonated before my eyes- that allowed me to respond as I wanted. I found an iphone app that would periodically remind me to breathe. I glanced out at the sky to gain perspective on the tiny classroom world.

The more formal and lengthy practices are critical, to be sure. I personally need an half hour of sitting a day to maintain my ballast that rights me when I get knocked down by the world. I do yoga to invite openness, work out stress, and build strength in my body. These more concentrated practices give me something to reconnect with in those shorter moments. They provide depth and stamina. They provide wisdom. But I can't just stay there, and I can't just rely on basking in the afterglow. Remembering to connect to my anchor throughout the day is what makes the day more livable.

So as I step off my mat and into the world, I actively seek moments
to listen
to see
to smell
to taste
to breath
to anchor.