Yoga as a science; yoga as an art.

I often hear and read that yoga is a science. I agree. It is a set of methods that has been passed along for countless numbers of people to try out and see what happens. It's a series of experiments for each of us to engage in.

But in the Western scientific method, the idea is to control enough variables each time that every person who does the experiment will get the same results. (Well, at least it was until quantum mechanics explained how that will break down at the smallest level...but it still holds true at the macro level.) Scientists only have to keep doing the experiment in order to see if in fact they will NOT get the same results--the idea is that we seek to DISPROVE the hypothesis, and if we can't, then we'll call it a theory.

In yoga, we don't have to believe in the hypothesis or theory that explains what will happen when we develop a daily practice--whether it is postures(asana), breathing practices (pranayama), cleansing practices (kriya), concentration techniques (dharana), meditation (dhyana), chanting (bhakti), or another path.

Those hypotheses do exist. Some of the yogic texts tell you what will happen, and others tell you why and describe the true nature of the universe. But you don't have to know about them, agree with them, or seek to disprove them in order to do your own yogic experiments. And you don't have to have the same experience as your fellow yogi scientist. So the analogy only takes us so far.

Which leads me to the other way to think about our practice: yoga as an art.

It's a set of techniques, like you'd learn in order to paint or sculpt or design a house. You learn the techniques, you learn the rules, and then you get to play with them, respecting the lineage you come from and also making it your own.

In this way, we can make our practice something we craft, a thing of beauty, that we offer up to the world. To the other people in the room with us. To the other living beings that benefit when we are calmer and more flexible. To something bigger than ourselves.

Both approaches are good ways to think of our practice.

Some days, we inquire. What will happen if I do this?

Some days, we create. Here is this, I made it, for You.

No need to improve. You are that.

So you've noticed that you're breathing more fully, or you're regaining range of motion in your hips, or you're able to stand on one foot for longer, or you're sleeping better, or all of the above.

Or maybe you've noticed that it's THAT chick who is sticking Tree (Vrkshasana) and Headstand (Shirsasana), and today you are decidedly NOT.

Whether you are feeling encouraged or discouraged, remember that this yoga thing is not about self-improvement. It is about Self-realization.

Yes, your small-s "self" will improve. But not necessarily in the ways we expect or desire. The set of physical sensations, thoughts, emotions, and whatnot that makes up your individual self changes a LOT because you practice yoga.

But just go back to the old yogic texts when you need a reminder--and I so often do--that it's not really about that. Patanjali's Yoga Sutras devote a whole chapter to outlining all the siddhis--abilities--that may come about from a regular, intense, devoted yoga practice. Then the chapter ends with a warning: Don't let these newfound skills distract you from the real goal. What's the goal of yoga? The same as the process of yoga:

Remember the Self. Wake up to the realization that even though it seems like I'm just a small-s self wandering this earth bumping into other small-s selves, we're really all a part of something bigger. This is what the Upanishads call the Self (with a big S).

I prefer the verbs "realize" and "remember" because the yogic texts, and our own yoga practices, constantly show us that it's not a process of acquiring new information. This is something we know already, deep down, and we let ourselves forget it in the rush of getting things done. In fact, as amazing as the process of childhood and adolescent development is, it is really a process of building up a small-s self and creating a shell of personality (preferences, differences, opinions, divisions) around our basic, deep-down similarities and connections.

Once we do this successfully, we have a few choices. We can just keep shoring up the line of defense of that isolated self with more and more likes and dislikes, more rigid opinions, and so on...or we can begin to OBSERVE the process by which we do this and not be entirely threatened when we realize that the small-s self isn't all there is.

So whether you balance masterfully or tip over and laugh today, whether your hips ache in tightness or open lightly like flower petals to the sun, just remember what Uddalaka teaches his son in the Chandogya Upanishad. He tells his son to put salt in a cup of water and bring it to him.

"Where is that salt?" the father asks.
"I do not see it," the son replies.
"Sip here. How does it taste?"
"Salty."
"And here?"
Salty."
"And there?"
"I taste salt everywhere."
"It IS everywhere, though we see it not. Just so, dear one, the Self is everywhere, within all things, though we see it not. You are that."

You are that, dear ones. Tat tvam asi. You are already that which you seek. The Self, or whatever you prefer to name it.

So is everyone else. Now can we remember that as we leave our mats?

(The Chandogya Upanishad excerpt is adapted from Chapter VI of Eknath Easwaran's translation, a lovely one, loose for the sake of poetry and clarity.)

Where is my guru?

Sometimes I have dreams in which my teacher Sharon looks like someone else, or even changes into someone else. Once she suddenly turned into my mother-in-law. Another time she had short blond hair, like a good friend of mine.

I think this is my mind's not-so-subtle way of reminding me that my teacher, my guru, is in everyone. People I get along with, people I don't, people I barely know. Friends, strangers, family, animals...those in my past, those in my present, and those I have yet to meet. The teacher is in all situations--beginnings, middles, and ends.

This is also Sharon's lovely interpretation of the "guru brahma" chant, and if you think you've never heard it, listen closely the next time you hear the George Harrison song "My Sweet Lord." It's in the background. You can read her full interpretation in the book Jivamukti Yoga.

The "guru" is the teacher who removes the darkness, the "goo," the muck that coats our windows and prevents us from seeing clearly. Sometimes we think it's just one person, but it can be everywhere if we are ready for it.

Dedicate your practice today to seeing the guru in EVERYTHING...your tight muscle, your injured joint, your fantastic capacity to balance, the tailgater behind you, the delicious lunch, the spilled tea, the smile on a stranger's face.

I may not understand what is being taught at each moment, but I can open myself to the possibility of the darkness being removed, so that I am ready to see more clearly how things actually are. Whether I am taking a class with my teacher Sharon, or talking with my mother-in-law, or seeing an old friend, or looking in my rearview mirror.