Ahimsa...or so we try... [December 6, 2013]

Ahimsa.  What does it really mean?  Or what does it mean to you?  While it has been translated by many as “to do no harm”, or “to not injure”, I have been schooled in the concept of doing less harm.   Doing less harm requires just as much consciousness as doing no harm, so it’s not for a lack of consciousness that I prefer this definition. It is that I believe that it is truly impossible to do no harm, and that doing less harm requires more awareness than most human beings have been taught.  [I do acknowledge, however, that in the grand scheme of geologic time, the harm we cause may balance out or be irrelevant.]  Considering that my life exists in human rather than geologic time, I will continue to share with you some of my thoughts on ahimsa.

I am fond of the contemplating the word ‘injure’ in thinking about ahimsa.  We have all had an injury of some kind:  a cut or a burn, or maybe we broke an arm or leg or even a finger.  We have been tackled in football, but also in life.  We can feel those injuries in our bodies, sometimes even long after the injury has healed.  But what about in our non physical bodies?  What about injuries to our feelings, to our hearts, to our sense of self?  While it may be easy to accept ahimsa as “I haven’t broken anyone’s bones today”, it is much more difficult to walk the talk of “I am not going to hurt peoples feelings today”.  That would actually require us to be aware of others and the personal and emotional space that they occupy.   It might even require that we avoid people for the day, but it’s likely in that process of avoiding that we might be hurting someone.   So, how to we actually live life with the practice of ahimsa?  I don’t know.  I have been both on the giving and receiving end of some crap that has certainly not felt like ahimsa, even from or to people that I have nothing but love and respect for.  And in some of those instances, it seems we are making a judgment call…this is better for me, even though if I thought about it, I may be hurting another person with this decision or path or comment.  So, do we choose not to think about the consequences of our decision making?  Or at what point do we let it go?  When is it better to choose me before we? 

I don’t claim to know how to walk a perfect line, and I certainly know that I am not devoid of hurting others, but I wonder about the price we pay for our decision making.  What do we trade for our inflexibility?  For being unaware, even if in the moment? 

Recently, I have been hurt (injured) by people that I would never have expected to inflict the pain that they have on me.  Maybe I am more sensitive these days, and yes, that may be a factor.  But, it seems that maybe we get so caught up in ourselves that we may not even understand the consequences of our actions.  In that there may be a recognition of ahimsa...but for whom?  Maybe we make a trade, to toss anothers humanity aside to benefit our own or anothers...and to what end?  I guess that I will never know, because I do not walk in any shoes but my own, and I have rarely been given the benefit of an explanation of their actions.  Years ago, I would have gotten caught up in the stories and wanting to know why and how, but these days, my focus is on trying to understand how we move through the world and on our path without picking up too much baggage from what happens to us along the way.  So I sit with my reaction, my hurt, the feelings I have in those moments, and give them their rightful place, and then I try to let them go.    

A friend of mine recently shared with me that forgiveness is the key to wholeness when we are hurt.   As I think about it, I agree with her in regards to our healing.  But, I still feel that there is a better way to more through life, with less collateral damage.  How do we do that?  I don’t know.  We are such complex but simple beings.  When it boils down to the bare elements of it, we just want to love and be loved.  And maybe, just maybe, if we can be open, find it in our hearts to truly love and be whole ourselves, we can try to do that with a little bit more ahimsa.

Return to the Breath

A few weekends ago, I received an email from one of my teachers, who beckoned us to return to the breath, consciously, for one day, all together, a group of 33 of us and more in solidarity.  I grew excited about the prospect of breathing in synergy with my dear friends and teachers, and others who are connected to the greater mystery.  In the pacific, where I was working, it was already Sunday (although Saturday in the Mainland US), so I decided I would spend my Sunday and their Sunday returning to conscious breath. 

Over the past week, I had been challenged with feelings of being alone and disconnected.  After 10 days in the desert with some of the most amazing people I’ve been blessed to meet, there I was back on a plane to the pacific; working more hours than I care to admit and spending my evening alone a solitary hotel room, rather than in the company of one of my true soul sisters, chatting until the wee hours of the morning about anything and everything that came to our consciousness.  I had been longing for that re-connection, and since it could not be done in bodily form, our coordinated breath seemed like a wonderful surrogate. 

And, what better way to reconnect with the breath than to go scuba diving.  So, inhaling and exhaling, equally and with ease, I assembled my underwater camera, grabbed my gear and drove cross island, chanting as I drove to continue my beautiful breath connection.  Even though I could have called someone to join me, that day I was feeling the calmness of my breath and the calling to be alone with it and the serenity of the underwater world. 

 

When you are in the water, there is no denying the breath, you need it to stay alive.  Oxygen is your life force.  The quality and form of your breath is a demonstration of how your body (your heart, your circulatory system) is performing any given moment.  With an open circuit scuba set up, like the one I use, every inhale is accompanied by a slurping sound, and every exhale is a stream of bubbles.  Often, when I am diving, these sounds are soothing to me, resonating in my ears and in my heart.   The natural rhythm of my breath calms my entire system.  Inhale sluuurp, exhale blub, blub, blub. 

Geared up and ready, camera in hand, I walked out to the cut in the reef, and with a giant stride, in I went.  Inhale sluuurp, exhale blub, blub, blub.  It had been a bit rainy that week, so I made my way out of the Lau Lau Bay shallows, into open water, where the water cleared.  Almost immediately, I was greeted by a phenomenon called the ‘bait ball’.  It is a school of fish that swims as a close pod, in what seems like circle formation.  Schooling fish usually form this configuration in response to predators, to appear to be a larger creature and/or to create confusion for the predator, but there is nothing ever chasing this particular bait ball.  It is just as it is.  And so, I sat for a while marveling at this school, which has no leader, and yet moves in harmony together, each fish feeling the energetic forces of the fish around it to determine what direction to go in and never colliding with any other fish.  It would seem that there was some orchestration happening, but somehow the school moves all together without any strife or without even knowing the direction they are going.  They are in the moment, moving together, in synchronicity.  And I recognize, what a lesson that is for us, and how we move through our lives, through our days, through our moments…how often do we move in harmony with our surroundings, with those around us, with the energy field of each other and our planet?  How often do we not have a plan for what direction we are going, but leave ourselves truly open to whatever possibility may be ahead?  We have so much to learn from nature, if we take the time to observe and be present with our breath.  Inhale sluuurp, exhale blub, blub, blub. 

Still pondering the bait ball’s movement and continuing my conscious breath, I finned on to deeper waters.  My intuition guided me toward the right, to observe areas that do not have a lot of diver traffic and give me the opportunity to poke around some of the larger and smaller rock formations, rather than the large finger reef, which is where most divers go.  As I glided through the water, I was completely in the moment, observing and absorbing with my senses.  And then a thought crossed my mind, “ahh, today would be a great day to see a turtle.”  And so it was.  As I rounded a larger rock, there it was.  A beautiful green turtle (Chelonia mydas) about 4 feet long, just hanging out munching on the algae growth.  Immediately, I became more conscious of my breath, inhale sluuurp, exhale blub, blub, blub. 

As scuba divers, we are constantly reminded of our breath through the sound; inhale sluuurp, exhale blub, blub, blub.  When we encounter wildlife, we recognize that the sound that be soothing to us (ahh, my breath), is not to an underwater creature (AHH, what the heck is that huge thing blowing those loud bubbles?).   And unfortunately, that thing that keeps us alive (our breath) is what scares the very things we came to see, away.  This issue is even more challenging for an underwater photographer, trying to capture the moment (and often with lights and more sounds and vibrations).  So, sometimes do what we are instructed not to…to hold the breath, fearing that we will scare our subject, stir up silt in the water with our bubbles, or mess up our photo with the stream and unsteadiness that comes with our exhale.  Some days, that is not enough, and the subject of our adoration flees.  Maybe they feel our fear over losing them, similar to what can happen in our relationships when we clench down in fear of the potential loss, so much that it becomes real…and there we are left with our breath.  And other days, like this one, maybe we relax into the moment, into the breath; inhale sluuurp, exhale blub, blub, blub; and we are graced with the opportunity, as I was, to spend 45 minutes hanging out with a beautiful pacific green turtle, munching down, content in the moment, and unaffected by my company. 

I’ve been enamored with turtles as long as I can remember, which may or may not be a long time.  While in college, I had the opportunity to spend time with the leatherback turtles of Las Baulas de Guanacaste National Marine Park in Costa Rica, courtesy of one of my amazing advisors.  Leatherbacks are the largest of these beautiful ocean creatures and while they make me seem small in comparison, their young are smaller than the palm of my hand and have very low survival rates, which is one contributing factor to their endangered status.  My time with leatherbacks also taught me about the grace of these gentile giants.  Ever since, I have felt a special connection to these amazing creatures, that lay eggs and are born on land, live most of their lives in the water and yet breathe air into their lungs to survive.   From spending those nights on the beach in Las Baulas, I learned how sensitive turtles are to light (they can become easily disoriented with other than natural light), and that their cycles of life are dictated and influenced by the moon (as is their potential survival once hatched).  Immediately recalling this sensitivity, I switched off the flash on my camera, not wanting to confuse or startle the lovely creature before me.  Green turtles are a smaller and more pervasive species than leatherbacks, however they are still endangered.  They are vegetarians in their older age, as this one was clearly demonstrating with its nibbling on the greenery in our vicinity.

So there we were me with my breath; inhale sluuurp, exhale blub, blub, blub; and my camera and this beautiful turtle, who allowed me to come so close that I could have reached out and touched it. The thought of actually touching it never crossed my mind, out of respect and admiration.  However, my mind wandered to thoughts of why people would feel the need to do so.  Why are we okay with entering the energy space of another creature, disturbing their life and their practice.  Why do we feel the need to intervene in the natural habitat of creatures?  Is there some reason why we pet turtles or stingrays?  Or feed sharks?  Why do we want to tame that which is wild?  Why do we try to control species for our own entertainment?  Do we need to feel superior or just that we have the ability to control everything that is in our midst?  We are visitors to this planet, and we, as humans are certainly visitors to the ocean.  Why do we not do everything we can to protect it, and all of the life forms in its midst?  And so, I tried to capture the beauty of this creature in this moment with my camera, knowing that what would show up on an image would only be a fraction of the beauty of the moment.

 

Occasionally, the turtle would gaze up at me, and I would drop my camera, so that we could look each other in the eye.  Who knows what he/she saw of me, but whatever I was, there I was with my breath; inhale sluuurp, exhale blub, blub, blub.  And all that time, as I breathed from the tank on my back, the turtle was holding its breath.  Turtles are believed to need a breath of air every 3-5 minutes, or shorter when stressed, and longer when sleeping.  Given the amount of time this turtle spent in my company, it seems that our time together was as relaxing for the turtle as it was for me.  At times, I felt as if I were breathing for both of us, and so I continued consciously; inhale sluuurp, exhale blub, blub, blub.  After an amazing 45 minutes of wonder and connection with my finned friend, I realized that it was time to begin my journey back to shore.  Since I wanted to have enough time (air) to do so gently, I said my goodbye to that turtle, who was the best company, besides my breath, that I had that day.  Gracefully breaking the connection we shared, I began to make my way back towards the reef line and shore.  When I was about a few breaths away, I turned back for a last look and saw the turtle had begun its ascent as well, towards the water’s surface, to replenish its lungs with air.  It was perfect.  We were still in harmony, even in our disconnection.  Slowly with attention; inhale sluuurp, exhale blub, blub, blub; I made my way back to shore, ever grateful for my adventure, and a magical return to the breath.

 

In case of Emergency

Some how when I thought about writing my first blog, I wanted it to be profound, something that flowed from me and that people would delight in reading.  And so, for months, possibly years, I waited for exactly that moment.  And waited.  And made excuses.  And procrastinated.  And wrote them in my mind.  And dialoged with myself.  Waiting for the time.  Waiting for the miraculous moment.  Waiting.  

So many things have happened through out the years, but today came and instead of getting angry, feeling hurt or belittled, I decided to write.  I always have a story, but today, I was given a gift that inspired me to think, to remember, and to want to share.  Not because it was happy, and inspiring, and profound, and unique or perfect, but because I spent way too much time pondering the few words spoken to me.  Those words were: “in case of emergency”.  And while it was only 4 words, the impact they had on my day inspired me to share some of my journey.

It sort of began a few days ago, when being the somewhat clutz that I am, I burned my hand with scalding hot water.  The friend I was with at the time had seen where the hot water pot was perched and tried to move it from its precarious spot on the ledge of the bathroom (why do they put the outlets in the worst spots?), but couldn’t find a better place.  Later when I went to grab the pot, the base came too, and the water that had been boiling moments before encountered my hand and made quite an impact.  As I gathered myself up and placed my unhappy hand into the cold water of the sink, I recalled when I was a young girl and my best friend had pulled a pot of hot water from the stove onto her and wound up with severe burns on her stomach.  I remember her pain, the blistering and scars that she was left with.  We were young then, scared, ashamed and guilty, and were supposed to have learned our lesson.  And so, with shame and guilt rushing back in that moment, I looked at my hand, and said “its not that bad”.  When I showed my friend, he rushed out to his truck a started pulling out first aid kits, looking for those little packets of burn cream one always sees in first aid kits.  He settled on the best thing he could find, Neosporin.  When we parted ways, he said, “take it” and also put a bag of ice together for me to help cool it off as I drove home.  Over the next day, I tried a combination of colloidal silver, aloe, vitamin E, tamanu oil and anything cold I could find to aid in the healing.  I convinced myself that it was getting better.  I needed it to.  I didn’t want to be the little girl who had pulled the pan off the stove…and certainly didn’t want the blisters or the scars.  And I couldn’t be the one to cry over spilled water.  So, I put on that tough exterior of “I can handle it” and went about my routine.

Yesterday, happy to have a Friday off, I hustled myself to my favorite yoga class at my favorite yoga studio.  Blessed.  There I was with a gaggle of friends and strangers to share a bit of sweat and inspiration on a crisp Friday morning.  And as I laid out my mat, and the heat began to fill the room, I became aware of my poor left hand…reminding me that I was human, and of that guilt and shame for causing myself pain.  Would I be able to practice?  Surely it wasn’t that bad, it just looked awful.  I pulled out the aloe I had shoved in my bag and placed it at the edge of the mat, and practice began.  Through out the class, I would be so fully present in the poses that I would forget that burning I felt, but at times, I stopped to lather a bit of aloe and treat myself with compassion and ahimsa (to do less harm), making sure that I honored my tender hand.  The end of class was graced with the familiar, but never overdone reminder that yoga begins when we roll up our mats.  That what we learn about our bodies, stretching, flexibility, challenge, balance and of course, ahimsa, is how we strive to be in the ‘real world’.  That when class ends is when the real yoga begins: the yoga of our lives and how we treat others and our world.  And closing with honoring our teachers, we moved from the sacred space of class, into the sacred space of the universe.

In packing up, I took note of my hand, which had begun to bubble with blisters, and clearly transitioning from how it had been previously and not looking or feeling so great.  As I left class, I noticed a large first aid kit, and saw that it had those little packets of burn cream I was unable to find the previous day.  I opened the box and saw that there was a stack of them, and ripped off one.  As I was doing this, one of the assistants approached me and I let him know that I had burned myself and mentioned about grabbing one of the little packets.  He responded with attitude about asking before just helping oneself and when I asked if it was okay to use one, he told me I would need to ask one of the other staff.  So I held on to the packet, spoke with friends, and waited for the opportunity to ask the other staff member.  When I finally did see him, and asked if I could use one of the burn cream packets, he responded gruffly that I should have asked first and that the first aid kit was “only in case of emergency” but since I had already taken it, I could have it.  I said I was sorry and returned the packet of burn cream to the first aid kit.  At that point it felt more like poison than medicine to aid in my condition.  There it was, that shame again, for helping myself to the packet, for having burned myself and for being vulnerable and reaching out for help.  When I left the studio, I laughed it off the shock because I could not imagine how the lesson of yoga preached moments before was so irrelevant to the people that worked in the studio, who practiced right along side of the rest of us.  I laughed because in that moment, I took yoga into the real world and exhaled the attitude, stretched my mind about the lack of care and released the challenge that anyone would put so much value on a small packet of burn cream that it couldn’t be used by someone…all in the name of “in case of emergency”.  It seemed more likely to me that the response was driven by ego and a view of scarcity, rather than the love and abundance that we hear about in the practice room, strive for in our practice, and seek for our lives.

As I went through the day, I pondered the concept of “in case of emergency”.  Who decides what is an emergency?  How do we know what we will need when that emergency comes?  How much do we put aside “in case of emergency”?  How much of our compassion?  How much of our energy?  How much of our love?  How much of ourselves?  What are we holding out for?  Are we waiting for the building to burn down?  What do we hope to gain?  Will we be prepared when that emergency finally comes?  Will that which we hoarded be needed or useful to us in that moment?  And how will we know when and how to pull out any of these things if we don’t do so in our daily lives?

For those you who know me, you know that I am not perfect (despite my quest in younger years to be so) and that I work in the world of emergencies.  When things go to chaos, I go to work.  And that well stocked first aid kit in that cushy studio in San Francisco, protected like it was a prized possession kept haunting me because I have seen scarcity and work in a world filled with elements of some emergency.  We can grip to what we label as ours, but when an emergency actually happens, one gets to realize that everything really is temporary and that the true yogis are often not the people with the toned bodies and sticky mats, who cling to a packet of burn cream like it is the last one they might ever see (even though the Walgreens is one block away).  The true yogis are those who not only offer their words of wisdom, but those who would give away the last of what they might have to help relieve someone else of some pain.  And, today, those few uttered words reminded of a group of such people. 

In July 2002, I was deployed on a disaster response to the island state of Chuuk (formerly Truk) in the Federated States of Micronesia, a freely associated state of the United States.  Two typhoons had barred down upon the island (and a number of others in the pacific) and biblical rains left many homeless, injured and dead.  I was sent there with a group of federal emergency responders.  We were from different branches of government, from fire fighters to health care professionals to environmentalists (me) and were sent to perform tasks associated with our field of expertise.  Most of us had never been to this island nation before, and were flown in on C-130s because the commercial flights were no longer flying because of the devastation.  We were brought there to assess the damage, but because Chuuk was not part of the US, our roles, activities and abilities were very limited. I was there to assess hazardous materials releases, but was given no support to actually cleanup or mitigate the releases.  My counterparts faced similar challenges, a 13 year old boy died while awaiting medical transport, because resources we not approved.  We were brought there to show that we (the US) was helping this poor island nation, but did not have the resources or support to do that.  Because of the horrible conditions, we came with our own medical support staff, and quickly became increasingly aware of the lack of medical supplies and medical care available to the people of Chuuk, who had been through the typhoons and were struggling to survive. 

An emergency response doctor, separate of our team, came in from the US to help out and was quickly overwhelmed and ran low on supplies.  Our medical staff offered to help, since our group was small and generally well, and he had little to do during the day.  When he began to help with assessment of some of the injuries and illnesses, instead of sitting in our camp doing nothing, he was served with a letter of reprimand and removed from the island.  We were told that the medic and the supplies sent with him were “in case of our emergency” and therefore they were not to be used for anyone else.  The rest of us were directed not to help any of the villagers.  We were threatened with disciplinary action.  What did we do?  We gathered all of our personal first aid kits and supplies and donated them to the emergency doctors who had come to help the villagers.  The EMTs and other staff on our team with medical experience gathered their supplies and joined the team of emergency doctors providing support to the villagers.  I demanded that the poisonous pesticides which were strewn all over a residential area be addressed and didn’t let up until finally I was given the support to bring in resources and get the area cleaned up.  We gave what we had.  We did the best we could, and if we gave away our last band aid, we were proud to do so, knowing that the person who received it needed it way more than we did and that it was providing much more service on a human being than it was sitting in a box waiting “in case of emergency”. 

Its been a long time since I thought of those 20 people and the 28 days we spent on that remote island, with much of the time feeling like our hearts and our hands were strapped behind our backs.  And yet, we got up each day, and tried to do our best, despite the imperfect conditions.  While none of us had stretchy pants, a yoga mat, or even a safe space to sleep some nights, we had our hearts and our heads in the right place.  We worked together to help in what ever way we could.  To the brave souls of the Joint Task Force Operation Chuuk State, FSM, I honor you.  Thank you for teaching me yoga, way off the mat and in the real world: inside the lagoon and outside of the box.  May we never hold back anything “in case of emergency”.  Namas te’.