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The Mystery Spot - December 2002

In the midst of a jam-packed autumn schedule, my husband, some friends and I took an enlightening hiatus to Santa Cruz for my birthday. While we were there, we visited "The Mystery Spot", a place where the normal gravitational fields are disrupted and balls roll uphill and people seemingly grow shorter when standing on one end of a level board. It was an odd place to visit, a place where none of the rules apply: trees grow crooked, birds don't nest, and because from day to day, the eccentricities of the place itself vary, scientists have failed to reveal it's secret.

Unlike the Mystery Spot, I'm much more predictable. As usual, by the end of November, after a marathon of specialty fall workshops, regular classes and the on-going administrative minutia, I was fried. A student who knows me well, insinuated that maybe I'd been pushing it, again. Hesitantly, I admitted that maybe I had, a tiny bit. She just gave me a knowing glance and said, "Yes, well Robin, that's your pattern."

Of course, my initial response was to defend the many reasons why it was necessary that I do all that I do, (another predictable pattern). But, an hour later when I slumped into bed at 6:30 p.m. feeling pummeled, too tired to hold a book, or converse with my husband (who'd been waiting to spend the evening with me), I realized Lulu was right. I had been here, many times before.

We all have patterns of behavior, of thought, communication, movement and action which don't necessarily serve us, yet, we engage in them habitually, often to our own detriment. According to Patanjali, the great sage, who wrote The Yoga Sutra, the practice of yoga is largely about becoming aware of these patterns, and taking action kriya, to make a conscious shift towards something more positive. In yoga we call this process, tapas, meaning to heat or cook. Anyone who has ever quit a habit, or stopped an addictive behavior, knows the inner heat that's created from the tremendous effort it takes to change. When we engage in this process consciously, over time, it becomes an act of purification and can transform our very core.

The problem is, we often don't see the behaviors in ourselves that need changing. Since it's difficult for us to view ourselves without distortion, it helps to have teachers, who like Lulu can reflect truth back to us when we're stuck. Patanjali calls this, svadhyaya, or the process of self-reflection.

As I lay in bed, immersed in that all too familiar fatigue last November, I reviewed the outrageously busy fall I had scheduled for myself. From the end of September onward, I had been a veritable 'doing machine'. There were no open spaces for reflection or rest. Driven by a number of beliefs I carry around in my head about needing to do it all, I planned my life, as if I had boundless reserves of energy. The truth is, I'm no Energizer Bunny. I need to pace myself, to rest between projects, or I consequently crash. I know this from having pushed the edge many times before. Though each year I do get better at living honestly, in a pinch, I still lean towards trying to trick the ball into rolling uphill.

In that change is challenging, Patnajali suggests we need to have a strong sense of faith in our capacity to transform, and humility about our place in the world The term he uses for this concept is isvara pranidhana. This awareness instills in us a sense of confidence, which nourishes our resolve to keep trying. Each time we demonstrate respect for ourselves and others by being completely present with our attention, we cultivate isvara pranidhana in our daily life.

Remembering this, as I sat down to write up my schedule for winter quarter, I limited my weekend engagements, leaving space for down-time. I realized that when I'm frantically anticipating the next event, I'm really not respecting what's happening right now.

As my friends and I left the puzzling Mystery Spot, (a bit queasy and out of sorts), we headed up the coast to watch the Sea Elephants play. In awe, I watched these cartoon- like beasts, breast beating one another, their enormous bodies lumbering across the sand. The backdrop of afternoon sun provided a dazzling laser show, accompanied by the ocean's percussive lullaby and the seagull's wail.

Admiring it all, I began to think how truly bizarre it was that this little one acre spot in Santa Cruz laid claim to mystery. Why not the whole Universe? Spielberg couldn't have created this scene, except in some virtual arcade, and even then it would be a knock-off of the original.

At home, we book our calendars six months in front of ourselves. Attached to our own busy-ness, we remain caught up in the habit of doing, convinced that our personal agenda is what's really important. While on the coast of California, the Sea Elephants spar. The moon and sun exchange greetings along the horizon... and we forget that we're just a meager member of the orchestra, not the conductor,
      never the conductor.

That's the mystery.

Blessings for a peaceful and joyful year.

The Yoga Barn, Inc.
Robin Rothenberg, Certified Yoga Instructor
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