Monday, September 22, 2008

The Guest House

Yoga teacher training is quickly becoming quite intense. We have classes from 11 am to 8 pm on Saturday and Sunday, then we are required to take at least one class/week and meet with our "buddy" to study together and practice teaching. I am loving it but it is a strain on the whole family. That said, they seem to be having a great time without me. I think there is something good to be gained from time without Mom around... and I suppose they are getting a full opportunity to explore that.

The classes themselves are interesting - a combination of asana work, Sanskrit, chanting, anatomy and meditation. Some are easier than others - because I have a basic knowledge of Hindi, Sanskrit is not so unfamiliar and since I have a regular meditation practice, there aren't any big surprises there. As for the asanas, I can get a little harsh on myself but I have to step back and remember that it is silly to compare myself to people who are 1. two decades younger than me, 2. a different gender and 3. professional dancers. Yes, I am the old lady of the group but what I lack in upper body strength I like to think I make up for in maturity. Stop laughing! I have been doing something for those two decades between 20 and 40.

Oh well. Intention is everything.

Here is a poem by Rumi that was recommended to us by our meditation instructor.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all.
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
Who violently sweep your house
Empty of its furniture,
Still, treat each guest honorably.

He maybe clearing you out
For some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
Meet them at the door laughing,
And invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
Because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.


Patti Blaine said...

You? An old lady? Can't imagine it for a minute. :)

a random life said...

I love that Rumi poem. Old, what is that? Surely not us?