Haftasonu grup buluşmamızda vereceğimiz derslerde ic/ dıs formu anlatma yaklasımımızı konuşmuştuk. Richard Freeman’ın Art of Vinyasa kitabındaki asagıdaki yazı ile karşılaşınca bu konumuz ile bağdaştırdım.
Bizler de bir gün, eger sanslıysak, dersimize gelen ogrencilerin “wake up” olmasında bir katkı saglarsak ne mutlu bize
Ancient wisdom, contemporary circumstances
WE FIND OURSELVES IN THIS DAY, THIS TIME, THIS VERY moment. If we’re lucky, we awaken to the circumstance—the beauty of what is before us, an astonishing, open kaleidoscope of interconnected patterns of perception. Waking up may happen by chance, or we may decide it’s worth the time and effort to lay the groundwork for it to occur. Through yoga, meditation, and prāṇāyāma, we practice with open hearts and inquisitive minds, and occasionally there’s a moment of clarity or insight as we touch the foundation (primordial immediacy) of breath, dṛṣṭi, bandha, and mudrā. Sometimes it all falls into place easily, like a puzzle just waiting to be solved; at other times, the pieces of form, movement, mind, and attention seem to be parts of disparate stories jumbled together. Yet we still return to whatever arises and the practice with a strand of faith that there’s more to it all than we will ever know. We understand that all we really must do is show up. When things are going your way, it’s simple to show up, and that’s good. But the test is when things aren’t going so well. When life throws the unexpected, complex, or difficult circumstance in your path, what then? Can you practice if you have only limited time, if everything is in flux, if habitual patterns of mind and body seem to have taken over your entire existence, or if you’re ill or injured? Of course! In fact it’s in those times of complexity, transition, difficulty, and doubt when practice is paramount.
Remember that the mind is always looking for an excuse not to practice, because the more we practice, the more the mind itself (our ego structure) starts to dissolve. You tell yourself, “I’m too stiff / too sore / too tired.” You think the practice just isn’t for you, it’s too difficult, you can’t practice because you’re an emotional wreck, you’re too old or too sick. And when you’ve proven each of these to be untrue, you come up with more excuses because somehow the easiest solution for the wandering mind is not to practice. That makes sense. The mind’s full-time job is to take in information, organize the data, make decisions, construct theories of “you” and guide you smoothly through time. For a responsible, intelligent mind, the most disastrous prospect is to give up its identity—to dissolve. The same rational mind that gets dragged into a practice eventually begins to notice that after practicing, there’s a feeling of safety, happiness, clarity, and a lack of tension. During practice, the mind forms a relationship with its complementary partner, the breath, and in this context, it gradually softens to trust process rather than conceptualization. Eventually, you see that the mind’s razor-sharp intellect and ability to discriminate are necessary, but when you grasp ideas too tightly, these very same ideas are a hindrance.