Yoga Practice - Shinay Tredeau

Sacred Space

The Reason We Line Up Our Yoga Mats in Class

My yoga teachers taught me how to be a student. These are some of the invaluable lessons (I am still learning):

Listen Deeply: be receptive, be open to learning something new.
Pay Attention and Remember. Mr. Iyenger used to say, “I hope my students make new mistakes.” I take this to mean that making mistakes is part of the process of yoga (and life) and that over time, as we learn, we will start to make new mistakes and learn new things instead of just making the same mistakes over, and over and never learn from them.
Cultivate Discernment, Discrimination, and learn to make clear Distinctions about almost everything in yoga (and life).
Trust Myself. Ultimately I get to say what works and doesn’t work for me, and I have a responsibility to honor my own innate wisdom.
“No Top End,” there’s always more to learn, another octave to leap, different parts of ourselves to observe. The process is endless.
Make Room for Mystery. “I don’t know” is a great place to be, no need to rush toward the answers.

When my first yoga teacher asked me to line up my yoga mat with the person next to me, I did this obediently, I trusted her instruction and it didn’t cost me anything. I learned a sense of spatial awareness so that I became more attuned to who and what was beside, behind, and in front of me.

My training in dance also helped me to listen with more than my ears. I listened with my whole body. I took my cues from the layout of the room—walls, mirrors, windows, door, other people, props, etc. I learned to survey a room the moment I entered and adjust myself accordingly. Part of being a student, for me, was adapting to what any particular space needed at the moment. (This is one of my on-going practices. I am nowhere near perfecting this awareness technique, but I do enjoy the subtlety of paying attention in this way).

Yoga is a process of joining ourselves with a larger perspective—the Divine, our Higher Self—and it’s a process of becoming more aware, more integrated, and remembering who we truly are. Paying attention to how we enter the yoga classroom (or any room) is just another tool for cultivating self-awareness.

“Hidden in every shape, every alignment cue, every “do this” and “don’t do this” is a call to pay attention: first to the shape, then to the placement of our body, then to the actions that activate the posture, then to the effects on our body, mind and mood, and finally to the part of us that watches it all. alignment in yoga is far from an exhaustive list of perfection-oriented details, but is, instead, a call to pay attention to who we are at the increasingly deep and more subtle layers of our being. ”
Christin Sell, “A Deeper Yoga: Moving Beyond Body Image to Wholeness and Freedom,” (pg. 20-21).

Sacred space happens with/through intention. Sacred means “worthy of respect.” First, we honor our bodies in this way. Our physical bodies are sacred, worthy of respect. And the space in which we practice (yoga, meditation, dance, writing, music) is also worthy of respect. We honor ourselves by setting up our space intentionally, just like decorating our homes. We bring love, honor, and respect to the places we call home, starting with our bodies and extending that loving attention outward to our cars, classrooms, and the natural world.

Get your copy of Christina Sell’s new book here. A Deeper Yoga.

Dance as Doorway

Dance.

Foundation. Fundamental ways of being. Radical: “with deep roots.”

I was three years old when my mom brought me to my first dance class with Janet Bicknese. I remember the mauve and blue chairs we used in lieu of a traditional ballet bar. I remember my pink ballet shoes that I coved and took extra special care of. My sister showed me how to tie my slippers, first to fit my feet, then to cut the laces and hide them on the inside so that the strings wouldn’t show. That’s how the big girls wore them.

We sat in a circle and let our feet say “hello.” Janet played classical piano music from a cassette tape player in the corner. We practiced our leaps across the floor. I believed that I could fly. We practiced plie (to bend), battemont (to beat), fondue (to melt). I’d never eaten fondue, but I’d eaten quesadillas and cheese omelets and I loved melting cheese. I loved my teacher because she put me in the front of the class because I listened well and was attentive to her every word. I loved learning to move my body. I loved the music that made me move.

Dance.

I loved dancing once I got there. To that little carpeted room in a double-wide with fluorescent lights on the ceiling and no mirrors. Getting to dance class was always a struggle. I remember fighting with my mother. I have no idea why I resisted going to dance class so much. I can only speculate now at age 31. Perhaps it was because I knew I would be asked to try new things, to do things I didn’t know how to do yet. I didn’t like making a fool of myself. I didn’t like the feeling of being awkward and learning new dance steps. It was uncomfortable and sometimes scary. But my love for dance won out. Making shapes with my body. Breathing, laughing, music. The music moved me. I could move and be free and I loved it. So I would eventually get in the car and go to class. I continue to thank my mother to this day for holding that firm line and “making” me go to dance class. [Thanks mom!]

Some girls were mean. They pushed and cut in line. I listened. I wanted to learn. I didn’t interrupt the teacher. I knew this was important. I didn’t know why. Mrs. Bickenese cultivated in me a desire to learn. She made dance fun. The created space for us to explore our bodies through movement. She made falling down okay.

Age seven. Dance with Jan Cavillary. Since I was a quick learner she asked me to into a more advanced ballet class with girls that were nine and eleven. I couldn’t keep up. I switched half-way through the year and when all the other students knew the warm-up routine, I was always on the wrong side, with the opposite foot. Jan taught dance not only as an art but also as a science. She demanded presence. No BS. “No street clothes,” she would chide. Mrs. Cavillary walked like a dancer, feet turned out, spine erect, majestic, stately, like a queen. I believed she was a goddess. She was 5 foot 2 inches tall. She instilled in us a sense of dedication to the craft of dance. Then Jan stopped teaching dance and went on to study Rolfing.

Dance at Donna’s. Age eleven.

I went to try out for point class. This is a big deal in the dance world. First, you have to be old enough so that the bones in your feet art stable. And second, you have to be well-practiced and trained. That day I came into the studio on a Saturday afternoon. There were 30 other young dancers. Turns out I didn’t have the right clothes for try-outs. I didn’t know there was a “uniform.” Black leotard, pink tights, pink shoes, hair in a tight bun on the very top of your head. I wore my favorite purple leotard, black tights, and my white ballet shoes. My hair wasn’t long enough for a bun. One of the older girls was very kind and helped to find me the right clothes. I wore clothes that didn’t belong to me. My hair was plastered to my head with hairspray, and I didn’t know anyone else in the class. I was brave. I finished the tryout. I didn’t make the cut. Even at a young age, I hated feeling unprepared. That’s the moment I “quite” ballet and never looked back.

Donna taught me how I didn’t not want to be.

I found Flamenco dancing at age 12. I learned rhythm, rigor, and timing. Loud, full flamboyant. I developed capacity and strength. I fortified myself to never return to ballet, (although there are some days I play the “What if game” with myself and it never ends well).

I learned partner dancing in middle school ages 13 and 14. African dance at age 18. Hip-hop, Jazz, Tap, Modern, and Contact Improvisation in college. Dance became my life. It was no longer just a hobby, I viewed dance a lifestyle.

Dance.

The discipline, the craft, the art, the science.

Inhabit the body. “The body is the way in not the way out.”–Lee Lozowick

I took my first public yoga class when I was 17 years old. I studied irregularly for six years. I completed my first yoga teacher training when I was 23. For the past ten years, I have steadily increased my yoga practice. At age 31, it is now something I cannot live without.

Dace.

The floor as our first “partner.” Not just feet or legs on the floor, but face, breasts, shoulders, elbows, butt, hands, knees.

Yoga.

“How we do one thing is how we do everything.” –Bhavani Silvia Maki

Healing through movement.

Dance taught me how to show up and practice anyway, even when I didn’t “feel” like it. Dance gave me a foundation.

Yoga added the layers of spirituality, heart, Grace, Divine Energy. A bigger, richer, deeper conversation. Psychology. Intentional breath, meditation, mindfulness. Yoga allows me to ask the question, “Who am I?” Over and over.

“I am That,” –Nisirgitatta Maharaj

Dance.

Through each teacher I have been asked to open, to see, learn, grow, and experience a new aspect of myself. I have been pushed to find a larger picture of connection. I have been offered a new way of savoring the world, this life, this body.

Intention. Move. Close your eyes. Listen.

“The body knows.” This was reinforced by dance and confirmed through yoga training. The importance of rigor and discipline in the context of learning any art or science is necessary.

“Open to Grace.” –John Friend

Dance.

Cheek to floor. The smell of wood and sweat and the full wall of mirrors. Learning to self-correct. Learning to hear instruction and implement that cue into my own body. Rhythm of the dancers moving together, in syncopation, our bodies making shapes, pulsing with breath, beat, nature. The music. The instructor’s slap. The demand. The attention. The rigor. The discipline for one hour each week. Twice a week. Three times a week. Five days a week, plus Saturday.

Dance as doorway to self and other and Universe.

Daily Rhythm

Dinacharya is a Sanskrit word that means, “Following the rhythm of the day.” Like a metronome, what we do consistently every day sets the rhythm for our life, whether we are conscious of it or not. I started studying Ayurveda many years after I completed my first yoga teacher training. I was looking for something that would help me find peace of mind and bring some semblance of balance into my life. That’s when Ayurveda found me. Ayurveda means, “The science of living,” which is a 5,000-year-old science that comes from India and takes its cues from Great Nature. What I discovered was that “balance” looks more like wobbling back and forth and all around rather than poise, or serenity, a fixed point on a spectrum.

What I continue to learn about my own organic nature in relationship to the Universal Nature, is that what I do every day matters. Not the grand gestures but the little things like brushing my teeth twice a day, hydrating first thing in the morning and eliminating my bowels fully (so that I’m not walking around full of sh** all day) meditating for 22 minutes, doing a 10-minute yoga asana practice, journaling for 10 solid minutes every day, and consistently eating three meals a day between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM and not snacking. We’re talking the brick-and-mortar of “yoga,” of life, of every single day no matter where I am on planet earth. I follow the rhythm of the day, for example, I go to bed when the sun goes down (more or less) and I eat warm foods in Winter, and my whole body becomes more intuitive, resilient, and intelligent. I become more natural. It may seem so simple, but when I fight the urge to go to bed when I feel tired, I create dis-ease in my body, mind, and spirit.

Ayurveda tells us that diseases are generated at the junctions of the season, the moments when one season changes into another. –Dr. Robert Svoboda, Ayurveda for Women: a guide to vitality and health

The teachings of Ayurveda remind us that it is better to engage in daily activities which prevent illness before it occurs. As practitioners of yoga and students of life we are encouraged to live in a way that allows optimum flow of energy/prana/life force.

The Three Pillars of Dinacharya:

Body—a healthy flow of energy in the body, mind, and spirit allows each human time and space to rest, digest, and reset/rebalance. Drink plenty of water first thing in the morning to have a complete elimination, eat your food in a relaxed manner, with gratitude, sitting down, aim to be in bed before 10 PM to give the digestive system a chance to detox naturally. (Read Dr. Claudia Welch’s book Balance Your Hormones for more on this topic.)
Mind—as the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali states, Yoga Chitta Vrtti Nirodha, “Yoga is the cessation of all self-limiting thoughts, patterns and tendencies within our personal energy field,” Bhavani Silvia Maki.
Spirit—”A living human being is a body-mind-spirit complex. Each part of you—organs, tissues, skeleton, nervous system, emotions, mind and others—possesses its own form of awareness, and each of these awarenesses relates together,” writes Dr. Svoboda in his book, Ayurveda for Woman, (p. 15). When start to pay attention to our bodies a whole world of awareness opens up. When we start to heed the signs that our bodies give us, we start to trust our own Great Nature.

As with any path of yoga, it’s life-long. Be gentle, go slow, and have faith. Thank you for sharing this journey with me.

If you’re curious about how you might align more fully with nature’s rhythms these are my own favorite resources. Find out more with Banyan Botanicals, Dr. Claudia Welch, and Dr. Robert Svoboda.

Ordinary Magic

Yesterday I taught the 9 AM yoga class, as the snow came down outside and covered everything in a fresh blanket of white powder, I spoke about the anticipation of change and newness that is present on New Year’s Eve. In my short life, I have been let down on New Years Day and Christmas Day and my Birthday, and most Mondays because of my expectations. I actually believed I would grow sparkly wings, but my wishes didn’t all come true, and when I woke up I had to face the fact that unicorns didn’t run wild in the hills of Chino Valley Arizona. And at the same time I know that magic does exist. Ordinary, Everyday Magic. The magic of sitting quietly by myself in the early morning before anyone else is awake, the magic of making really delicious food, the magic of an Arizona sunset. I know this as fact. The Tibetan Buddhists called it Drala, or “Ordinary Magic,” which appears when I slow down and pay attention.

Looking for some credit-worthy source to back me up on this opeinion, I came across the book, Ordinary Magic: Everyday Life as Spiritual Path, edited by John Welwood. Here’s a passage from the intoduction:

As children we have all felt, at least occasionally, a powerful sense of wonder at being alive in this world. Yet in growing up, we mostly lose that sense of magic. As we become caught up in worldly ambitions and burdens, life becomes increasingly routine, humdrum, and one-dimensional.
Magic, as I am using this term, is a sudden opening of the mind to the wonder of existence. It is a sense that there is much more to life than we usually recognize; that we do not have to be confined by the limited views that our family, our society, or our own habitual thoughts impose on us; that life contains many dimensions, depths, textures, and meanings extending far beyond our familiar beliefs and concepts.
The loss of a sense of the magic and sacredness of life is also happening in our world at large. In traditional cultures living closer to the natural world, people had a more immediate sense of larger forces shaping their lives. Gods and demons were near at hand. And the culture provided rituals and symbols that helped people remember the larger sacred dimentions of life in the midst of their daily activities. Walking, eating, lovemaking, working—indeed, every activity and life passage—were endowed with religious or symbolic meanings that helped individuals connect with the larger, universal forces shaping their destiny.
Now that we have become disconnected from the cycles and rhythms of nature, we frequently seem to miss the whole point of being here at all as we rush thorugh the whirlwind of our busy lives. Yet being busy is not the main problem. What does it matter whether we have ten things to do today or just one, since we can do only one things at a time in any case? The problem with having ten things to accomplish is that while doing one, we are often dreaming or worrying about the success or failure of all ten. The speed and compulsion of our thoughts distract us and pull us away from where we are at each moment.
The word dis-traction is particularly useful here. It suggests losing traction, losing our ground—which is precisely what happens when we slip and fall away from being present. It is only in the stillness and simplicity of presence—when we are aware of what we are experiencing, when we are here with it as it unfolds—that we can really appreciate our life and reconnect with the ordinary magic of being alive on this earth.
p. xiii-xiv

I declare this year the year of “Ordinary Magic.” Slow down, be present. I was joking with my friend Sera yesterday that when I feel the urge to “Wreck House” as we like to say, what’s really going on is the need to move some energy but my mind goes off the deep end and spouts off things like, “Get a puppy, have a baby, buy a car, spend more money, eat the whole chocolate bar, kick, punch, kick,” but what I do instead is sit down and keep my hands to myself (and shut up for at least 20 minutes.)

When I learn that my thoughts are not to be trusted I am able to connect with something way more real than the constant fluctuations of the mind. That something else I’m calling “Magic” today. As my yoga teacher, Bhavani Maki said, “Yoga is the process of making the impossible possible.” And making magic requires a combination of effort and ease. “Leaning forward slightly off balance,” as Andrew Cohen said. We must do our own work. We must do our own work. I am not repeating myself, I am writing it again for emphasis.

The Necessity of Formal Practice and Studentship

Practice implies repetition and consistency over a long period of time.

Yesterday, I said to my 9 AM yoga students, while they held a long Down Dog, “This might sound heretical and this is my opinion only but here’s the thing: Do you want to learn from a teacher who doesn’t have time for their own yoga practice?” Now, these guys are dedicated to their practice and we have a lot of trust between us, so I felt comfortable saying this to them. Often I say things out loud that really ought to be kept to myself, but this morning I opened my mouth and spoke. Today I’m still sitting with what I said because I feel that it could be widely misunderstood. I’ll do by best to shed a little more light on what I meant:

I completed my first yoga teacher training in 2012. I initially did yoga teacher training to further my own studies and delve deeper into the traditional teachings and practices of yoga. I never wanted to become a yoga teacher. That was not my idea of a “good time” (or my “dream job”). Standing in front of any number of people wearing stretch pants reciting Sanskrit is not within my natural comfort zone. I’m intrinsically a very shy person. I’ve learned to be outgoing, outspoken, and personable.

Looking back now, I remember that during my first yoga teacher training my teachers would use their lunch break to do their own asana practice. The training room was closed to students for an hour and a half so that our teachers could use the space for their own. We were not allowed back in the room until 30 minutes before class began.

I remember thinking, “Wow, that’s kinf od a lot of yoga.” What I didn’t know then, but what I do know now, is that teaching yoga is really different than doing your own yoga asana practice. In the seven years I’ve been teaching yoga, I’ve gone from one end of the pectrum—taking weekly yoga classes as a student and substitute yoga teacher, to the other extreme—not practicing at all because I was teaching over 10 classes a week, to finding my way someplace in the middle where I now teach yoga six hours a week and practice at least my own meditation and yoga asana every day for at least 5 to 30 minutes (some days longer). I take Sundays off.

From where I sit at 31-years-old with no children and no mortgage, and a hefty student loan debt plus a car payment, it’s my opinion that there’s hypocrisy in calling oneself a “yoga teacher” when one has no time for their own yoga. We all waste time in different ways. As teachers, how can we adequately offer space for other people to practice yoga and have no space or time for our own investigation of yoga?

How am I supposed to offer intelligent instruction for engaging the process of yoga if I am not actively engaged in this same process? How am I to lead others if I am not navigating the same terrain? How? When does formal practice get put on the back burner? If you’re a mother? If you’re caring for your elderly parents? If your spouse is ill? If you are ill? These are not questions aimed at a final answer. This is my own on-going exploration of what it means to be a yoga student, what it means to be a yoga teacher, and the necessity of formalized spiritual practice.

As a yoga student first and foremost I believe in formal practice. Sure, I could call a hike in nature my “yoga practice” for the day. I could use the sweet metaphor of washing dishes as my “yoga practice.” I would even say that being with my darling niece and nephew is a sort of yoga. Yes, all of these forms of play and practice could be yoga when we view the picture from a much broader perspective. And yet… what about formal practice? Do we save our formal practice for when we have the time? For weekend workshops? For retreats? For when we feel like it?

Ma Devaki, a Devotee and Attendant of Yoga Ramsuratkumar, an Indian Saint known to many as the God Child of Tiruvannamalai of South India said, “Being tired and being sick are not excuses not to practice.” Go figure. These are two prime examples of when I choose not to practice. And yet the invitation stands: how can I make formal practice of yoga a necessity and a priority? Something I can’t say “No” to. At some point, the necessity for formal practice far outweighs my excuses not to practice. When does one make the shift from wanting to create a formal practice, to actually doing it? How can I, as a yoga teacher, offer space for others to do the cultivate a formal practice?

The only way I’ve seen that is remotely effective is 1. To keep showing up, and 2. “Go within and scale the depths of your being from which your very life springs forth,” as Rilke instructed Franz Kappus in his Letters to a Young Poet. It is my wish for all practitioners of yoga is that we are students first. Studentship is the foundation from which all good teaching arises. Yes? Studentship elicits humility, curiosity, and dedication.

Yoga is a life-long process that implies experiencing some discomfort. It’s a path of evolution, and on that path, we ask the question, “What remains consistent?” Like my friend, Rachel used to ask me every time we got together for tea, “What’s steady on consistent in your life, Shinay?” As a 20-something, the answer was always hard to come by and I believed that if my life was not always constantly changing and new with a great drama to play out that there was something wrong. As a 30-something, steady and consistent is a quality I’m learning to love and invite more of into my life. I’m slow learner in this department but there’s a texture to life that I enjoy when I slow down and really get down to the business of formal practice.

I still get itchy from time to time wishing things would constantly change form, and yet—the moments that I look forward to are the early morning hours, before the day begins that are all my own, that I get to practice sitting still and then going up-side-down in headstand and shoulderstand. This is my formal practice. It’s all a process. When I was a new yoga teacher I didn’t practice at home, I went to class. Seven years into teaching I start with small 5-30 minute incrimants every day. Let’s see what the next seven years brings, shall we?