Santosha, contentment ~ The Fruits of Practice

Do your practice, all is coming. ~ Sri K. Pattabhi Jois

Increase your sweet practice. Your practice will benefit you at another time; someday your need will suddenly be fulfilled. ~ Rumi (from "The Guest House")

The motto of The Samarya Center's teacher training is "Teach from the Heart, Teach what You Know." I believe that whenever we teach from this place of authenticity and experience, we offer the gift of our own challenges and joys to illuminate some of the more hidden aspects of our spiritual practice. Our practice then, becomes something living and practical, rather than simply a study of philosophy, or a lofty idea. It is in this spirit that I sometimes feel that the Universe is speaking to me, through me, pushing me through trying times so that I might offer some bit of wisdom or contemplation to my community.

Over the past several months, the Universe has been preparing me for the topic of Santosha, contentment. It has offered me multiple opportunities to reflect, to desire, to be disappointed, to be optimistic, to be in love and to be humbled. During this time in my life, more than ever, I have been grateful for Santosha, and in particular, for my longtime spiritual practice. I know that it is my practice that has allowed me to come through all of these wildlyvacillating and rapidly changing emotional states with an intact soul, a joyous heart, and a deep gratitude for the mystery of life.

The journey to parenthood has been challenging to say the least. It has been well over a year of a constantly evolving emotional landscape and a reorganizing of heart, mind and body. After losing a pregnancy last year, my beloved husband Sasha and I moved on to our original plan A: adoption. Adoption had been our intention when we first were together, but over time, that intention turned into a desire to have our own biological child. It was not so difficult then, to decide that adoption was truly our path. We started asking people about it, researching it, going to informational meetings and generally getting excited at the idea that there was some little person out there that we didn't know and who didn't know us, but that would come into our lives and forever change us and them. Then, as it seems to often happen, in the midst of this, we discovered we were pregnant again. With the first pregnancy, it was all excitement and openness and adventure. With this second one, we leaned towards stoicism and reservation. We hardly talked about it at all, and didn't even tell our families until we had passed the timeframe that we thought was most fragile.

While visiting my parents in Canada recently, we finally began to settle into the idea that this was really going to happen. My parents were supportive, comforting and fun. They were optimistic and joyous when we felt good, and encouraging and understanding during the times when I felt down. Quite honestly, it was hard for me to believe in the pregnancy, having had only one other experience with it, which didn't turn out how I wanted.

One night when I was feeling especially unsettled, I was sitting with Sasha on the lake, looking at the seemingly infinite array of constellations and shooting stars. I turned to him and said, "I'm really scared, and glad to be here with my mom and dad. It's like I'm a little kid, believing that when I'm with my parents, nothing can go wrong, that everything is going to be OK." Sasha, in his wisdom, responded, "Or maybe, when you are with your mom and dad, you just know everything is going to be OK, no matter what happens." Santosha. That deep feeling of being OK, of being in the flow of life. I realized Sasha was right. I was going to be OK no matter what, and my relationship and faith in my parents had everything to do with my relationship and faith in God, the Universe, Ishvara, with Life itself. I started o reflect more intensely on this feeling of contentment. Even with the prospect of giving birth well within my mental reach, I also knew that this child, this pregnancy, this one desire, was not the thing that would bring contentment. I knew deeply that as much as I wanted this child, that I would always be, and in fact always was, ok. That even within the heartbreak and loss, there would always be a part of me that could find a deep sense of peace and ease. This overwhelming feeling of contentment, even gratitude, with and for my life as it is, held me in a soft and suspended place of truly letting go.

I recalled a few years ago when I was with one of my most treasured teachers, Pam Havig. Pam has one of the most beautiful marriages, families, husbands, perspectives on life, I have ever known. Several years ago, I was sitting with her and some of her students, and somehow someone asked her if she could be happy if something ever happened to her husband. Pam answered without hesitation. "Of course! I love Don more than anything in the world, but my ability to be happy is not based on his presence in my life." Wow. I was stunned. Pam and Don are the kind of couple that make you happy just to be around. They love each other so deeply, respect each other so much, and have so much fun together, it truly seems like they were made for each other, that one could not be without the other. I remember thinking, "How can that be so? I want some of what she's got." What she has is contentment. Santosha. That transcendent sense of being at peace, even in the midst of change, disappointment, simple inconvenience, and even heartbreak.

While Sasha and I were in Canada with my parents, we attended Catholic mass as we usually do with them. My parents instilled in all of their children that whether or not we chose Catholicism, as they had, that we would benefit fromtaking some time out of every week just for silent reflection and connection to something greater than ourselves. Although I am not Catholic now, I have held that teaching and enjoy going to mass, back to my roots, from time to time. During the sermon, the priest talked about his work as a chaplain in hospice care. He talked about how he had observed that many people died in fear and isolation, but that those who had made a practice of saying the rosary always died peacefully. He preached strongly to his congregation that they should start saying the rosary and make it a consistent practice. He reminded them that they could take twenty minutes here and there throughout the day to complete the rosary and that they would benefit deeply from their practice. When we left church, I said to my mom, "That was a lame sermon. I've sat with people at end of life and have observed both of those things, both the fear and isolation, and also the peace and readiness. And it did not depend on whether or not the person said the rosary." My mom agreed immediately. "A person can dowhatever their practice is. It might be saying the rosary, it might be reading the Torah or the Koran, it might be silent sitting, but what is the same is the dedication to practice. That's what develops that sense of peace and ease." My mom is awesome. And she's right. It is the dedication to practice that creates the change. It is the dedication to the idea of contentment, to developing this inner sense, that creates the feeling. When we practice, we get to reap the benefits, and we never know how or when we will most need the fruits of our practice. I think about learning to handstand, or headstand, and recall seeing those poses for the first time. They seemed so far away, almost impossible. But we dedicate ourselves to the practice, and we see the results. We learn to headstand, we learn to handstand, we progress slowly, our "success" looks different than anyone else's. But what we have in common is the desire to create that change. To move, or live, in a way that is more fulfilling than what we have done before.

Sasha and I are back to Plan A. Again. We lost our second pregnancy right at the magical, mystical twelve week mark. But the experience this time was radically different. We had already been on this ride, and we knew all of the possibilities. We had already committed to our love and gratitude for each other and had reflected deeply on our own contentment, whatever happened. Yes, it is a sad story, but it is not a story of sadness. This story, to me, is one of hope and joy. It is a direct experience of going through heartache and emerging OK. It's not to say that it was easy, nor to say that anyone else's experience would be like ours. But my desire truly is to "teach from the heart, teach what I know." And what I know is that with practice, this contentment is here, already, for anyone. But it comes with a price - the price of practice. So, like the priest said, twenty minutes here, twenty minutes there - do your practice. The gift of contentment is a gift worth working and waiting for. We believe that the gift of our child will be the same. Worth working for and worth waiting for. And that all that we have gone through, and our dedication to our practice, in fact will make us even better people and better parents.

"Do your practice. All is coming."

"Increase your sweet practice. Your practice will benefit you at another time; someday your need will suddenly be fulfilled."

Contentment ~ Here's more fun youtube to get you started.

~ with much love and light ~ molly

"When I dare to be powerful- to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid." ~Audre Lorde

Asteya ~ non-stealing, or recognizing the rotten root of desire

Been caught stealing;

once when I was 5...

I enjoy stealing.

It's just as simple as that.

Well, it's just a simple fact.

When I want something,

I don't want to pay for it.

~ Jane’s Addiction

My life is amazing and great. I have so many things, opportunities, friendships, and experiences, I can hardly imagine wanting more.

When I sit in meditation, it’s easy for me to feel the abundance of my life and the endless opening of my heart, and from this, the exquisite overwhelming light of gratitude.

Just the other day in fact, I was sitting on a seat of impressive volcanic rock, facing the ocean, my beautiful husband wading peacefully through the warm waters of the thermal pools behind me, surrounded by the lush green of the palms, and breathing in some of the cleanest air on the planet. I dropped quickly and deeply into that contented state of an easy meditation and was surprised to hear my timer sound off its soft harp sounds, signaling the end of my sit. I opened my eyes slowly, took in a few deep breaths, and got up to find Sasha, eager to share with him the insights that had come to me without even trying. It felt like the best meditation of my life, and I couldn’t wait to include him in my discoveries.

As I walked up off of the rocks and over to the pools, I noticed several people standing watching the ocean with excitement. I assumed they were just reveling in the huge waves and crystal blue color, until Sasha came running up to me, “Did you see those whales?” “What whales?” I responded. Although I had been enjoying my meditation, it didn’t seem possible that I could have zoned right out of prime whale watching. “Are you serious?” Sasha continued, “there was a mother and a calf and they were playing and jumping right there,” pointing to a large rock about ten yards off shore. “Everyone was screaming and taking pictures, I’ve never seen whales so close in my life.” I couldn’t believe that I had actually sat through all the excitement. Suddenly my “great sit” felt like a total waste of time. I didn’t want my “inner peace” and “insight,” anymore, not when it meant missing seeing whales up close and personal. I kept asking Sasha to describe exactly what he saw, as if somehow by hearing it enough, I would experience it too. I walked into the warm pools, listening to everyone sharing their excitement, the water washing over me like the feeling of disappointment and wanting that pervaded my mood.

I had already been thinking about this feeling of wanting. In the week before I left Mexico for Hawaii, I had been asked to translate an important meeting of an afterschool program in my town. A cell phone had been stolen, and there was ample evidence that a young girl who worked at the program had taken it. The American founder of the program wanted to talk to all of the workers together to discuss what to do, and needed my help in being understood. I translated faithfully, then asked the founder if I could add something myself. I turned to the girl, whose family I know well, and told her, “If you took it, just say so. Everyone makes mistakes, everyone wants things they can’t have, and every thirteen year old has made an error in judgment. No one thinks you are a bad person for taking the phone, they just think you made a mistake, and you can remedy it by telling the truth.” My little friend stared at me with a poker face and simply shrugged her shoulders. She was not going to admit her guilt, and there was no way I could make her. When the founder and I spoke after, I told her that I believed the girl had taken the phone, but that we should now just let it go. There was nothing else we could do, and the teen would have to work through her own process of knowing the position she had put her family in, and that the adults around her were willing to listen to her and forgive her, that they understood her longing. I believed that lesson would last. As the founder and I went through our own process of letting go, I put forth a question of complicity. Were we, the relatively rich Americans who live in the town, not also a part of the issue? Could it be possible that seeing us with our cell phones, our trucks, our i-pods, i-phones and laptops, is part of what stirred the sense of longing and temptation in this young girl? She has what we want, a life in Mexico, and we have what she wants, things and money.

I thought of this because I had recently had another powerful experience of wanting it all. A good friend of mine in my town had just told me she was pregnant. In a moment of ungrounded jealousy and longing, I was talking to my sister about my so far unrealized desire to have a child. I found myself telling her, “I just get so mad when I think about my friend, I mean, she doesn’t even have a boyfriend, she has no job and no opportunity, and no network of support.” In other words, she doesn’t have any of the wonderful things that I have, therefore she should not have this gift, whereas I, having everything, should have more.” My sister and I both laughed when we realized my reasoning. This longing seems to cloud any sense of rational thought.

And yet we do want it all. And when this longing becomes too much to hold, we act on it, doing and saying things that we know at some level are, at worst wrong, and at best, ridiculous. When I hear myself or others saying, “I can’t believe that he …..,” I just want to say, “Really? You really can’t believe it?” How could we not believe it?

The truth is, we all share this deep sense of longing. What we have is never enough, and we become consumed with getting more, whether it is a material thing, an opportunity, a relationship, or a state of being. We might, as the people at my hotel in Vallarta do, get up at 6 o‘clock in the morning to save our spot on the beach, even when we know that we are going back to bed and may actually not make it to the beach until noon. At least we got our place. This might seem reasonable if we are the one that has the beach chair and umbrella, but it would seem obnoxious and unfair if we are the one wandering the beach with no place to sit, while looking at all of those empty chairs, “saved” by beach towels and paperback books.

When we think of this month’s topic, Asteya, non-stealing, we might feel relieved that this one is easy. We don’t steal, right? And it makes it easy too, to feel superior to those that do. But if we change our perspective to what we share, that longing, that seemingly insatiable sense of desire, we might realize that we steal in subtle ways more often than we think, and that we are only one life experience away from acting out our longing and taking what we want. And we want it all.

We may think that we practice the ethical precepts of yoga, the yamas and niyamas, to steady and still the waters of our own erratic thought stream. Perhaps it is the other way around. Perhaps we practice asana, pranayama, meditation to calm the turbulence of our mind, to satisfy the disruption of desire through finding contentment, abundance and fullness from an inner source. Maybe when we acknowledge this longing, we can attend to it and not push it away, deny, defend or judge it. And maybe, when we commit to this tenderness toward our own suffering, we open to new possibilities and gifts. Perhaps even the gift of knowing that from that place, that perspective, we already have it all, and that our satisfaction is not dependent on phones, children, whales or anything else. It is as close as our ability to recognize and appreciate it.

About a week after my sit, where I thought that seeing whales was better than the gift of contentment through meditation, I found myself sitting again facing the ocean and listening to the sound of the huge crashing waves, the salty air fresh on my face. The waves were getting louder and louder, and I decided that I should partially open my eyes to make sure the peace of my meditation was not disturbed by being washed away by a rogue wave. I allowed my eyes to open slowly to half mast, “shiva eyes.” Directly in front of me were three huge whales, close enough to swim to, jumping and playing in the surf. I looked around for Sasha, or anyone, to see if this was really real. I didn’t see another soul, so in a moment of wanting to hold on, I took out my camera, and held it up to my face. As soon as the camera was there, I could no longer see the whales with the same clarity and directness. I realized I was trading in the actual experience for the desire to “save” it. I put the camera down and just breathed in gratitude and astonishment. Right then, the biggest whale jumped up out of the water, and as it landed, one of the group let out a huge playful bellow. In that moment, I understood. I really did have it all.