Warrior Pose (54 page)

There's a large cement foundation on a grassy knoll at the Marriott near the villa I once lived in and befriended Fred the duck. The hotel periodically pitches huge tents here for special events, but the space
is never used in these early morning hours. I make it my outdoor Yoga studio, rolling my mat out at the edge of the platform to be as near the water as possible. After a few gentle Yoga poses to work out the kinks from the bike ride, I sit in stillness, listening to the lapping of the bay waters, the morning calls of gulls, terns, ducks, egrets, and the occasional cry of an osprey.

The San Diego skyline towers across the bay to the northeast, and I can feel the city slowly coming alive. To the southeast is the Coronado Bridge, with the arch of its sloping blue span perfectly framing a range of mountains on the border with Mexico. This is where the sun rises. As soft, predawn light begins to glow on the mountaintops, I sit in meditation with my eyes fully open, drinking in everything as a new day prepares to dawn.

Mud hens and cormorants float on the surface of the bay then quickly dive under, seeking their morning meals. An occasional seal swims slowly by, wriggling its whiskers like it's smiling at me. A solitary boat floats out from the harbor, its wake leaving a rippling pattern behind it like migrating geese in flight. The ridgeline of the mountains begins to glow in hues of pink and gold as the sky expands. I begin soft chants of “OM,” and it sounds like all of nature is humming the mantra with me. I feel my entire being realign with the natural rhythms of Mother Earth and the cosmos.

Finally, the sun bursts forth above the mountains, sending a thick, dazzling beam of golden light dancing across the bay right into my heart center. It's an electrifying, out-of-body sensation, like the first time I stepped into the Yoga room at the Pain Center. As the sun continues to rise, I feel golden light pouring into every cell of my being, cleansing, healing, and energizing me like celestial
Agni
. I can sense Mother Earth spinning through the heavens around this star in a glorious dance, and it's easy to understand why so many ancient cultures worshipped the sun as a deity and the source of all life.

I drink in the deepest breaths possible, thanking my back pain, the broken vertebra, and the failed surgery for all they have taught me. The very first time I tried this practice of gratitude, waves of relief rolled through me, so I've stuck with it. I breathe in light and life and
then exhale pain and suffering, accepting all physical challenges and setbacks as blessings and catalysts for positive change.

Concluding my practice as the sun lifts fully into the morning sky, I surrender to whatever the future may hold, then bring my palms together at my heart center in
Anjali Mudra
and bow my head, whispering, “Thank you, sun.” I finish with the Sanskrit term Savita taught me at the Pain Center, “
Namaste
,” sending a prayer from the light of my heart to the light of the sun. Then I softly roll up my mat, slowly rise to my feet, and walk in a sense of meditation to the Marriott spa.

The spa's quiet, upscale gym offers generous views of the bay, though my focus is on the machines. I spend almost an hour trying every one of them. I have to keep the weights low. Despite how much stronger I've become, every exercise machine confirms I'm still weak and lack stamina. In my prime, I could bench-press 245 pounds for ten repetitions. Now I couldn't lift fifty pounds for five reps if my life depended on it. I go slowly, taking several extra minutes on each machine to improvise supported Yoga poses: twists, extensions, hamstring stretches, and hip-openers. I'm doing a lot more Yoga than lifting, but the combination is furthering my progress, as strange and comical as I must appear to the dedicated morning workout crowd who begin to arrive as I finish up. I always try to make an exit before they pop on the TVs and the Sports Channel begins to blare and break the beauty of the morning.

The bike ride home is a bit of a challenge. Along with a slight incline in this direction, there's a steep hill two-thirds of the way back that still gets the best of me. Although it's only half a block long and no more than a thirty percent incline, it looms like the Himalaya Mountains themselves. I can't get ten feet up the slope without stopping, dismounting, and pushing my bike the rest of the way, huffing and puffing as I go. Little kids heading for school zip right past me, zooming straight up the hill on their tiny bikes. I have to pause and laugh with complete abandon or else I might break into tears.

Pamela and I have rearranged our schedules to accommodate this new phase of my practice. She makes Morgan breakfast in the morning and gets him to preschool. I return from the bay and slip back into my cave until it's time to pick him up at mid-day. I make him
lunch, then he and I take off to the beach for story time. Once home, we play until his afternoon nap. I return to my cave, emerging each evening to pedal in the other direction, westward to the beach for sunset. It's another transformative experience for me, meditating on the song of the ocean waves, watching the seagulls gather on the sand to prepare for evening as sailboats return to harbor beneath the golden-pink light. I'm filled with a refreshingly new and deep sense of gratitude as I say, “Goodnight, sun. Thank you, sun.
Namaste
,” again feeling synchronized with the rhythms of nature and truly blessed to be alive.

I'm home in time for dinner and bedtime rituals with Morgan, and then, of course, back in my cave for nighttime practices. This expansion of activities and spiritual connection with nature has deepened my confidence and commitment. I bike to the bay almost every day now, even on mornings when it is cold, cloudy, and foggy, only skipping the ride if there's a rare rain shower. Even then, I drive my car and do my sunrise practice in the spa, listening to the song of the storm as the sky comes alive in hues of silver and gray. I try never to miss the sunset, either, even if it's ducking down behind thick clouds or hidden in a bank of fog. Despite all this, the ego never goes away. It always wants to be in charge and is masterful at conjuring innumerable reasons not to stay faithful to my practice. But I have a deep sense that if I slack off, I'm not going to make it. My back will go bad again. I might even want painkillers. Who knows? The idea of falling back into the abyss is completely unacceptable to me, so I keep finding new ways to put my ego in its place.

Sometimes I walk outside and let the rain pour down all over me, then run inside and take a hot shower to break the chill. Occasionally, on an unusually cold morning, I bundle my sweatshirt and thermal jacket in the basket between the handlebars of my bike and take the morning ride bare-chested. It freezes me to the marrow and it's everything I can do not to scream and wake up all the neighbors along my route to the bay. But I persevere by thinking of how young children can jump into cold oceans and lakes that adults can no longer step a toe in, or play endlessly in the hot sun without the need for air conditioning and shade.

As children, we have an innate capacity to handle a wide range of experiences. We take the hot and cold better than adults. We fall down, skin a knee, let out a roar, then get back up and keep going. But as we age, we become addicted to our creature comforts, we constrict our range, avoiding more and experiencing less. None more so than I during my years of being bedridden and medicated. After such an extended time of feeling nothing but chronic pain and depressed emotions, dancing in the rain and taking crazy, cold bike rides help me reclaim my inner child and expand my range once again. After so many years of running away from the pain inside of my body, I realize I've inhabited it once again. I've developed a new relationship with myself, discovered my inner life force, and opened myself more and more to the possibility of a completely new life.

CHAPTER 35

Going Deeper

A
N OLD INDIAN ADAGE, often attributed to the Buddha, says that when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. One rainy morning, I see on the Marriott spa bulletin board that a Yoga class is scheduled to begin at 6
A
.
M
.
, in just thirty minutes. I'm there on my mat ten minutes early, laughing at myself for being so excited. I try to close my eyes and meditate on my breath, but all I can think about is what the class will be like, and so I keep popping my eyes open, looking for the teacher. As the time for class approaches, it looks like I might be the only student, but then two or three hotel guests amble in just as the instructor arrives.

“Hello, my name is Rene, and it's good to be here with you,” she says with a tone that feels contained and authentic. Then, with a twinkle in her eyes, she adds, “We're here to move our bodies and move our breath, but most importantly, we're going to have a good time doing it.”

Like my first teacher at the Pain Center, Savita, Rene is peaceful, grounded, and extremely present. She also sparkles with a childlike joy that's contagious. She looks like a cross between an athlete and an actor who plays Peter Pan in summer theaters, with shortcropped blond hair, wide green eyes, a muscular frame, and balletlike movements. Her strength and flexibility are remarkable as she demonstrates the poses.

Rene's class is gentle and restorative, yet playful and invigorating. Although I'm familiar with all the poses, she takes me to new levels in each one and it feels effortless. Moreover, I can sense Rene's intelligence and devotion. By the middle of class I'm convinced she has great wisdom and insight into Yoga as a spiritual and transformative practice, not just as an exercise. As the class ends, I know I've found my next teacher. I quietly wait for Rene to end her conversation with the hotel guests then meekly ask for a minute of her time. “I need your help,” I say, giving her the shortest version of my story that I can muster.

“I feel I can't take it much further without a teacher like you,” I explain to Rene, telling her that I've been creating my practices from reading books and then letting my intuition guide me from there. With a teacher, I hope to get feedback on what I've devised for myself, learn how to do the poses with more specific guidance on my alignment, plus get more help with breath work and meditation. The books have so many practices that I sometimes feel overwhelmed and don't know which are best for me at this stage. I also feel like I've been alone on this journey for too long and need company, especially with someone who will validate rather than ridicule what I'm doing. I don't want any misimpression, so I'm careful to note that I'm married and have a child. There's no other agenda than to practice Yoga with someone who can take me to the next level.

“I think there's a lot we can do,” Rene answers in a softly confident tone counterpoised with a radiant smile. “Let's try it and see how it goes.”

We agree to practice twice a week on the Marriott boat dock, which juts about thirty yards into the bay near the platform where I sit each morning for my sunrise practices. When we meet the next day, Rene has brought several thick, woolen Yoga blankets for our session. We begin by doing a series of the restorative poses that I'm used to, but with Rene's guidance and gentle, hands-on adjustments, I go deeper into them than ever before. A half-hour later, she uses the blankets to create a comfortable place on the wooden planks of the dock for me to lie down on my back. This is called
Savasana
(Shuh-va-suh-nuh), which is always the final pose in Yoga practice.
Sava
means corpse, and
Asana
, a pose, hence
Savasana
is the Corpse Pose.

In a way, it's like playing dead, lying there like a corpse in stillness and silence, except there's nothing morbid about it. The death is symbolic, signifying the cessation of movement, thought, and ego. It's a deep and profound letting go of the body, mind, and senses while remaining fully aware and present. Before I lie down, Rene takes a long, soft cotton scarf and wraps it several times around my forehead, covering my eyes and ears. “This is a technique of withdrawing the senses,” she says. “The more we internalize our awareness, the deeper we are able to go.”

With the cloth around my head, I can't see a thing and barely hear the lapping of the bay waters, but Rene's voice comes through perfectly as she guides me into relaxing as she places her palm on my abdomen.

“I can see you already breathe very deeply,” she says. “I noticed it in class. This is excellent, but I want you to breathe even deeper now, and breathe much slower. Visualize your breath starting well below my hand, down at the bottom of your pelvic bowl. Now slowly draw it all the way up to the crown of your head.”

I find myself wanting to be a perfect student and take the biggest breath of my life.

“That's too fast and too shallow,” Rene says with a sense of power and command that impresses me. “Dig down deeper. Start the breath lower. You are still above my hand, about at your navel, and you only took it up to your throat. Start lower and drink it all the way up to the crown of your head.”