Every year when the daffodils start to bloom I think of the line by Anais Nin: “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud, was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” There's a point in a yoga practice as well when the risk to remain tight and protected is more painful than the risk it takes to let go, start fresh and navigate with fierce vulnerability in the soft brilliance of our own deepest wisdom. Yet, when that blossoming happens it doesn't all happen in one glorious moment. It happens slowly, unraveling layers of color to meet the world. The incremental process is necessary to build a sustainable foundation that can face any challenge with grace and the courage to remain open—not just visit that space from time to time.

Like the daffodils that press their way through the earth, slowly unravel, finally lift their heads over a span of many days, and then, inevitably...it snows. Every year this happens in my garden; and the flowers do not retract. They don't fall under the weight, complain or reach for their bud casings. They are strong in their unwavering willingness to greet the world in whatever form it presents.

This happens often during growth and expansion. When we finally decide to open, to drop our protective armor, the very thing that would validate protection occurs. This is my favorite part of the practice! It forces us to choose to remain open, not because it's easy or comfortable, but because there's no other way to truly live. It becomes more of a risk to remain cut off from any part of our being, than it is to let go and remain open to the whole spectrum of experience.

In a yoga practice we work to build authentic connection within ourselves, and our external environment, so that we can also maintain an accessible pathway to our true selves in any environment, any posture, any challenge. The daffodils, for me, are a daily reminder that it's more important to live a life that is open and free, than to hold tight to the walls of a blind room that may never know the beauty of yellow, the touch of snow or the gift of breath.

May we all keep working with intense tapas: vigor, drive and discipline, to achieve a greater capacity to remain open.

The Bhagavad Gita, one of the ancient texts of yoga, tells us not to do anything for the fruits of our actions alone.  When we reach for the end result, we narrow our vision and miss the journey... which is where most of the experience, joy and learning take place. Great suffering ensues when we reach for the fruits of the action alone, or in more common language, subscribe to the belief that the end justifies the means.

I like to think of this concept like growing an apple tree. You like apples so you decide to plant a tree in your backyard. You start with a seed. You plant and water that seed. You tend to the soil; cultivate, trim and care for the sapling as it grows. It takes many years before it is full grown. It doesn't bare fruit right away. It takes time. Many seasons. You care for it and watch it change and grow through it all. Then one day, an apple ripens. Now, if you did all this work to get to this one apple, the end result, and you eat that apple and it has a worm in it, or it's sour, then all the years and work you put into the tree will seem worthless and wasted. On the other extreme, if you eat this apple and it's the best apple you've ever tasted, then in a few minutes when you've eaten it and it's gone, all the years and work you put into the tree will seem worthless and wasted. The apple is only one very small part of the growth of the tree. It's the whole process that's interesting. The apple, then, is a tangible manifestation of all the work that came before. It's not significant on its own; it's the culmination of your work, but each minuscule step along the way was necessary to create that apple. The only way to enjoy the fruits at all, is to enjoy the path itself. 

To touch back on the previous blog entry: The Four Steps, this is another reason we don't want to immediately change a misinformed pattern: i.e. turning a foot in, if we notice it turning out. In aiming for the end result of where we'd like to be, we miss the path along the way that builds the nourishment, strength and awareness to bare that result sustainably.  

1. Be awake. See what's going on and look right at it.
   
2. Consciously, and with great intention, choose not to change it.
   
3. Put strength somewhere else.
   
4. Everything will eventually meet this new strength... This step happens on it's own.

As Martin Luther King Jr. said: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only Love can do that.” You never have to change anything about yourself or anyone else. Though we do have to do something. It's just usually not what we imagine. We have to start a new path, not adjust the perceived faults of a broken system. Recognize the innate beauty that is already there and bring attention back to that. No need to fight, adjust or let go of anything. See it, don't change it and bring attention to what is strong, what is light, love, free... any quality you would like to cultivate. Build the environment and foundations that support these qualities and they will naturally drive out the outdated patterns that no longer, or never did, serve you. Live in the ways you know are balanced, healthy, strong, kind and good, not because you have evidence or support of it, but simply because it's how you want to move in the world. 

So, first, we have to be aware of our bodies, environment and situations, within and around us, as they are.   
This requires that we be open and vulnerable; able to look at the world, and ourselves, with fresh, non-judgmental eyes. In this way, we can re-learn how to walk, stand, breathe... simple things that we've done as long as we can remember, but we must first be willing to see what we do. After seeing it, we then have to very consciously... not change anything. 

This is the hard part. If we change this habit automatically, we typically compensate to the opposite extreme. For example, say you notice your feet tend to turn out, so you automatically turn your feet in. Done. Simple enough, right? But, by jumping to action we miss the opportunity to address the tight and dominant outer hips; the weaker, taut inner thighs, the sacral tightness and outward rotation of the femurs. None of this is sustainably effected by the turn of a foot in the opposite direction. Turning a foot one direction instead of the other will have its own compensation issues—opposite sides of the same coin.

Instead of changing anything, we build strength somewhere else. Bring attention to what is strong.
Returning to the leg example: we start by engaging the strength of the inner thighs and drawing the femurs in, back and up into their sockets. This also lifts the pelvic floor (mula bandha). We feel this length all the way through the spine, from the inner edge of the sacrum to the root of the tongue. We then lift the pit of the belly toward the spine, press the sacrum toward the belly and engage the uppermost hamstring origins, drawing strength down the back of the thighs toward the feet. By bringing this attention deep to center, the foot will naturally turn. If you think only about turning the foot itself, you miss the juice. 

The last step, then, happens on it's own: everything meets at this new center.

To review: 1) We first must have the courage to notice, 2) Do nothing to change it, 3) Put strength somewhere else, and 4) Allow ourselves to meet and reorient around this new strength.