Advanced studies = teacher training

In yoga, there is a juxtaposition of “advanced studies” and “teacher training.” Do they necessarily go together?

On one hand, it makes sense. Those serious enough about yoga to delve deep into it are likely to become teachers. Similarly, those pursuing PhDs become professors who not only publish their own work, but also teach and mentor students.

On the other hand, I suspect that some devoted yogis enroll in teacher-training programs because there are few other outlets for advanced study. In other pursuits, such as music or dance, one can perform, create (eg, compose or choreograph) … or teach.

In yoga, the clearest way to advance is to teach. One hypothetically could advance by self-motivated study: by attending classes and especially by studying on one’s own. Yoga is, after all, based on self-study and experiential learning. But, while independent study is the crux of yoga, the guidance and critical feedback of an external structure (aka a teacher-training program) is an invaluable catalyst.

Ripeness for teacher training

After a decade of practice, I’m now training to be an Iyengar teacher. This year, something clicked and I felt “ready” to teach. As a trial run, I taught a few old friends who know me in a totally unrelated context; thanks to their positive feedback, I then offered beginner classes at my neighborhood community center and committed myself to the lengthy and thorough Iyengar training.

Back in the early 2000s, I was a keen student but, while encouraged by a teacher to do advanced studies, I felt that the expectation to teach was premature. I was still a sponge, drawing lessons inward, unready to direct them outward.

Are there advanced studies for non-teachers?

Devoted students can do serious study on their own, reading and practicing and attending workshops for advanced students. But, generally (and surprisingly), even “yoga towns” seem to offer few classes exclusively for upper-level students. Most yoga classes are geared to attract the largest-possible numbers; they typically span “all levels” or multi levels.

Visiting San Francisco last fall, I attended an Iyengar class for levels 1 to 4, and the teacher (a senior-level certified teacher) forbade me from doing full sirsasana while she taught less-experienced students a modified headstand-prep pose. Unless a teacher is adept at simultaneously managing different levels (and the good ones are maestros), the class is geared toward the middle range.

Even if there were advanced-studies programs geared for pure learning, who would enroll? Probably folks who will eventually enroll in teaching training! But it would be exorbitant to pay $3,000-plus twice, first for advanced studies and later for teacher training. Who wouldn’t opt to combine them?

Maybe this is just a moot discussion. All who complete teacher training probably mature as yogis and as people. Beyond that, it’s highly likely that those who can teach, teach, while those who cannot, do not.

Related post: “Prerequisites for teacher training”

 

Addendum on vegetarianism

In the November 9, 2009, New Yorker issue, staff writer Elizabeth Kolbert discusses vegetarianism and factory farming in “Flesh of Your Flesh,” in which she reviews Jonathan Safran Foer’s nonfiction book Eating Animals. Kolbert’s review (which reads as effectively as a full-fledged article, as the best reviews always do) struck me in the way the CBC documentary on overfishing (see my last post) did.

It’s not a new topic. From John Robbins to Michael Pollan, we’ve repeatedly heard the same story, about the horrific way we treat livestock on modern mega farms. But it does bear repeating.

In the November 30, 2009, issue, there were four letters to the editor about Kolbert’s piece. They’re worth a read. In particular, the first letter gave me pause:

“[V]egetarian moralism denies an essential fact of living: death … In the end, this is what worries me most about Foer’s arguments—that so many are so ignorant of their food choices, so ignorant of agriculture, and, finally, so ignorant of what awaits us all.”

I agree that it is life-transforming to witness death. And I somewhat see his point: Just because I might refrain from killing animals doesn’t mean that they’ll never die.

Perhaps what matters is one’s attitude toward killing. In pre-industrial times, people saw firsthand the slaughter of livestock for food. By bearing witness to death, perhaps by their own  hands, they participated in a natural ecological cycle and could viscerally understand the sacrifice. But how many of us today raise livestock, hunt game, catch fish, or otherwise kill our own meat?

When I see glistening filets at a fish counter, I admit that I react first to their culinary appeal, not to their formerly living, breathing sources. Until I’m more cognizant of the fish rather than the filet, maybe I’d best stick to tofu…

 

Ahimsa versus sashimi

I recently watched part of a CBC documentary, The End of the Line, about the catastrophic collapse of global fish populations—due to our insatiable appetite for seafood. It’s based on Charles Clover’s 2008 book, The End of the Line: How Overfishing is Changing the World and What We Eat.

Once plentiful, Atlantic cod and Bluefin tuna are facing extinction. If we continue fishing at our current rate, most seafood will be gone by 2048. Fish farming is no solution for top-level carnivores like salmon because their diet requires killing huge quantities of small fish, such as anchovies; in other words, fish farming is only fish “conversion,” with no increase in total production.

Once eaten mainly in coastal communities, fish is now trendy worldwide. No longer a delicacy or an oddity, sushi is popular with the masses. Once affordable only by the wealthy, shark’s-fin soup is now eaten by millions of middle-class Chinese any day of the week. On TV, celebrity chefs rave about fish and make home preparation doable for the masses; the documentary featured a clip of Jamie Oliver with a flawless slab of tuna, breathtakingly red and succulent.

Laws limiting catch are hard to enforce and many governments don’t even try. (One place that does patrol its waters is Alaska.) Some fishers voluntarily limit their catch, hoping to ensure long-term stocks rather than immediate profit. But many do not. It’s really up to consumers to eat wisely. Googling “sustainable fish” will find numerous handy sites, such as the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s seafood recommendations for the USA and around the world.

Vegetarianism and me

For three years during my 20s, I went vegetarian, partly for health benefits, partly to avoid the large-scale livestock industry. It wasn’t a huge transition, as I’d already reduced my consumption of fish, poultry, and especially meat since college. In a way, it simplified my life. At restaurants, having few options can be either liberating or limited, depending on your personality and perspective; for me (snap decisions are not my forte), a minimal menu was a time saver. I missed only sashimi and sushi.

Eventually, however, I added fish back to my diet. I wanted an efficient protein source. With no carbs and ample omega-3 fatty acids, fish is outstanding.

Second, I felt that my attitude was growing too rigid. Dining with friends during that period, I ordered the summer-roasted-vegetable risotto. I forgot to ask about the base (sneaky chicken stock) until way too late. It really damped my evening, despite my having eaten lots of chicken as a kid, and I decided to prevent further OCD tendencies.

One Fish Two Fish

Applying the concept of ahimsa, nonviolence, to eating fish encompasses both the micro level (killing an individual fish) and the macro level (decimating the world’s oceans). I’m more concerned with the latter. The thought of empty oceans is quite staggering.

Many “environmentalists” who protest harm to polar bears and white tigers have no qualms downing a plate of just-as-endangered Chilean seabass. Chefs are concerned primarily with culinary quality or popular demand. Medical professionals encourage eating fish over meat for cardiovascular health, but warn only of mercury contamination.

My choice: I can limit my fish eating to “green light” species. Or I can again forgo the sashimi. I’m still deciding.

 

Peer-reviewed blogs

When I began my blog last August, I told myself that it shouldn’t matter whether anyone reads it. Blogging would be an outlet, a way to gather and release my thoughts (some fleeting, some fundamental) about yoga. As a writer, I process through words. I wanted a free, uncensored forum sans gatekeepers.

Whatever the audience size, whatever the response, no matter. After all, words are my work—and also my play. I enjoy the process: choosing a topic, analyzing my thoughts, and crafting a sentence that makes the cut.

Such an exercise sharpens my mind. So, why should I be delighted if my blog stats rise and disappointed if they fall? I am changed, after all, by the act of writing. Shouldn’t that be reward enough?

It’s akin to any personal endeavor, including asana. My home practice is unseen by others. The “doing” of it is enough.

Blogging community

I’ve found that blogging takes an inordinate amount of time. I struggle not only to write my own posts but to keep up with other yoga blogs. Days or weeks might pass before I return to someone’s blog, even a bookmarked favorite. How did I spend my “free time” pre-August, before I paid attention to the yoga blogosphere? Sometimes, as I fine-tune a post late at night, racing the clock else miss my bedtime stretching, I wonder if blogging is worth it.

Truth be told, I do care about audience size and response. I am pleased (tickled pink, my dad might say) to receive comments, positive or negative. I am encouraged when my viewer stats spike. I am thrilled when other yoga bloggers link to my blog.

When respected fellow bloggers comment or otherwise signal that they are listening, it is especially redeeming. It’s as if my blog were favorably peer-reviewed.

I try not to be overly swayed by my audience. But I must also acknowledge its importance. Except for personal journals, writing means communication—and communication requires at least two parties. Through my blog, I’ve “met” yogis, from Seattle to Chicago to Montreal to Halifax, who’ve spurred my writing and thinking, by their own writing and thinking.

Peer reviewers

If none of the following bloggers (plus others whom I am overlooking) had offered their goodwill, my blog might be a stunted, abandoned experiment. Thanks (in no particular order):

Linda of Linda’s Yoga Journey; Bob W of Yoga Demystified; Nikki of Yoga with Nikki Chau; Brenda of Grounding Thru The Sit Bones; Dhana of Nourishing Body and Soul; YogaDawg of My Itchy Third Eye; Brooks of Yogic Muse; Eco Yogini; Jamie of Jamie on the Mat; YogaDork; Waylon of elephant; Lauren Cahn of Yoga Chickie; Chi-Chi of Where There’s a Will There’s a Way; Kristin of Namaste from Duluth; and Roseanne of it’s all yoga, baby (who deserves special thanks for including one of my posts in her list of favorite 2009 yoga blog posts)

Related post: “The wide world of yoga blogs”

 

When do yoga teachers practice?

I love practicing yoga first thing in the morning. It wakes my body, smoothes the kinks, clears my mind. I feel energized. Energy begets energy, as they say. Now that I teach three mornings a week now, my practice is cut short (especially if I accidentally oversleep) on those days. Still, I’ve got it made. I am free most mornings to practice, and that no-brainer consistency works for me.

When I check out full-time teachers’ schedules, however, I see that most cannot practice at the same time daily. Their classes are scattered ’round the clock throughout the week. Such eclectic schedules are probably necessary to accommodate students’ varied schedules. Also, if teachers share a studio, no one can monopolize all 5pm classes (or whatever one’s preferred time might be).

But doesn’t this inconsistency wreak havoc on a teacher’s own practice? Sure, one can probably find a decent chunk of time here and there. But doesn’t that inconsistency drive one a bit crazy?

Of course, that’s life.

Maybe the trick is to practice when almost nothing can interfere, perhaps at 5am (yikes) or at a strictly protected afternoon time slot. Or maybe it’s good to shake things up day by day.

It seems that people vary in their preferred modus operandi for work (which I define as a chosen pursuit). Some prefer a loose schedule, allowing for spontaneity. Others find that consistency aids their creativity or productivity; ideas spring forth, ala Pavlov, at that designated hour.

Me, I tend toward the latter regarding things that truly matter to me. Otherwise they’re liable to slip to the back burner. So, whenever possible in my life, I’ll keep a consistent asana practice schedule.

Of course, I’m always on guard for complacency and laziness, two pitfalls of routine. In his memoir, The Summing Up, the great W Somerset Maugham* wrote:

You cannot write well or much (and I venture the opinion that you cannot write well unless you write much) unless you form a habit; but habits in writing as in life are only useful if they are broken as soon as they cease to be advantageous.

*I first discovered Maugham when I read the first paragraph of chapter 50 of The Moon and Sixpence and was compelled to read the whole novel. He is a sharp observer of human nature; his dialogue rings true; and his wit is ever amusing. My other favorite Maugham novel is The Razor’s Edge, for its vivid characters who make revealing life choices. One main character’s journey in Europe and India, seeking the meaning of life, would probably interest yoga types.

Image disclaimer: Illustration depicts sunset, not sunrise, in Kona, Hawaii, circa 2004.

 

Make the most you can with what you’ve got

In a prior post, “Reawakening the body,” I discuss toe mobility and the possibility of developing “yoga feet” by willpower and lots of practice. Those of us with spreadable, grippy toes might feel relieved of further effort. But, let’s face it, grabbing fallen objects and opening cabinet doors is mere child’s play.

For real dexterity, check out Jessica Cox*, a phenomenal young woman born without arms, but who can eat, handwrite, type, play piano, put in contact lenses, do black-belt-level tae kwon do, drive a car, and fly a plane … all with her feet! Seeing is believing, and this video of her flying a plane is mind-boggling. (Besides being adept with her toes, she’d probably be a natural in asana, don’t you think?)

It’s clear why she can capture audiences as a motivational speaker. She has zero self-pity and instead creates adaptations to function as effectively (or more so) as the rest of us. Watching her interviews and reading her essays, I’m also struck by her refreshingly pleasant demeanor and, well, her normalcy; she’s neither a martyr nor a misfit. Don’t miss her bracing story about going for a swim (yes, she can swim, too) at the University of Arizona pool and finding herself in a crowd of frat and sorority types going wild at Greek Body Fest 2007.

Knowing about Jessica Cox makes me feel ridiculous for ever complaining about my lot in life!

*Acknowledgment to yoga teacher and friend Barbara Uechi for mentioning Jessica Cox in her blog.

 

Is stretching overrated?

In yoga, it’s an advantage to have stretchy, elastic muscles. Touching the toes is not enough; yogis strive to clasp behind ankles, with forearms hugging calves and forehead pressed low on shins.

But is such flexibility good for anything else?

In the New York Times’s Phys Ed column, Gretchen Reynolds wrote an intriguing article, “How Necessary Is Stretching?” on November 25, 2009. She questions the common belief that stretching and maximal flexibility enhance physical fitness. In one study of distance runners, the least flexible (based on a standard sit-and-reach test) athletes showed the most economical running strides and the fastest race times. In other words, being bendy did not help athletic performance (in running, at least).

According to exercise physiologist Malachy McHugh, who was quoted in the piece, flexibility depends both on the muscle anatomy itself and on the mind, which controls a stretch based on perceived discomfort. Apparently, when we increase our stretching capacity, it’s not the muscle itself that’s changing but the mind: we increase our tolerance for the discomfort of a stretch.

McHugh adds that actually changing muscle elasticity would require hours of stretching, over months or years. The conclusion: Most people aren’t willing to do that, and most don’t need to. As long as you can touch your toes in the sit-and-reach test, you’re fine.

Perhaps so. But here’s my take on two points:

Is stretching for flexibility worth the effort?

We all lose flexibility as we age. (Same with strength. And speed. And power.) So it behooves us to preserve it. In my 20s, I met a slim woman in her 40s at the gym. Over the ensuing decade, she continued to swim and work out. While she retained her leanness, however, her posture seemed slightly stooped and her gait, slightly jerky. I could see the trajectory of her aging. In contrast, committed yogis seem to retain their suppleness and smoothness of movement, probably due to their flexibility (and body awareness).

As for hyper-flexibility, I say “why not?” While average flexibility will get us through life, maximal flexibility (short of pain and injury, of course), gives us extra leeway for everyday actions. It’s akin to developing aerobic capacity through wind sprints or any interval training: You might never need to run for your life, but isn’t it nice to climb stairs or romp with your dog without gasping for air?

Does stretching change our muscles or our perception of discomfort?

Probably both. The mental component explains why longtime yogis welcome a degree of “pain” in stretching. I don’t mean dangerous pain, but the delicious pseudo pain of pushing to your max. With higher thresholds for stretching sensations, we can go deeper.

The mental limit is also illustrated by stretching methods such as proprioceptive neuromuscular facilitation (PNF) stretching. Here, one can stretch a muscle farther (much farther, in some cases) after strongly contracting that muscle. That’s because the contraction initiates a relaxation reflex in the muscle, to protect it from strain. Obviously, the muscle is not changing after a single PNF exercise, but the mind is allowing a deeper stretch.

That said, I believe that muscles can become more elastic with regular, long-term stretching. Commonly tight spots such as shoulders and hamstrings can markedly improve in poses such as sarvangasana and uttanasana. Often, people cannot even approximate a pose at first. The issue is not merely tolerating discomfort in a given pose; rather, tight muscles must be lengthened to a baseline level. The muscle must actually change. Of course, I have no proof.

All I know is that stretching simply feels good. That’s reason enough for me.

Image: tanakawho

 

Reawakening the body

“It’s not over,” he said. “There’s always a chance to change. You should not — you dare not — give up.”

Gregg Mozgala, actor and dancer with cerebral palsy

In yoga classes, I’ve notice some students’ difficulty moving their ankles and toes. Point, flex. Easy enough. Rotate them in synchronized circles. Okay. Now flex only the toes back, in tiptoe position (some call it “floint” or the amusing but apt “Barbie”). More struggles here. Now spread the toes wide apart. Half the population can’t seem to separate their toes.

Having grown up in a no-indoor-shoes culture (which I enthusiastically support for the whole world), I’ve spent most of my home life barefoot. So my toes splay like an amoeba and can retrieve fallen socks and writing implements with minimal effort. (Of course, I have other weak spots.) But the frozen-toe syndrome made me wonder: can immobility or “deadness” in our bodies be corrected?

Regarding feet: One of my first yoga teachers (and still a favorite from long distance), Sandy Blaine, couldn’t move her toes much when she was a beginner. So, upon waking in the morning, she would look at her toes and just try to move them. By the time I met her, a decade later, her toes could spread like a hand. She conjectured that trying to move her toes (perhaps even mentally directing them to move) spurred new neural connections.

Yesterday, I read a fascinating story, “Learning His Body, Learning to Dance,” New York Times, November 24, 2009, about Gregg Mozgala, a man with cerebral palsy who at age 31 is relearning how to move his body through dance. Due to his disability, he’s always struggled with basic actions, such as walking; when choreographer Tamar Rogoff tried to teach him new forms of movement, he’d either fall or be incapable of even trying them.

So Rogoff started from scratch with him, to “‘find’ individual bones, muscles and tendons that he had had no command of before.” According to the article, “[t]hey started at the top and worked down—sternum, sacrum, knees—with Mr. Mozgala’s body and brain opening paths of communication that had not existed.”

In the article, Dr Stephen A. Paget, chief of rheumatology at the Hospital for Special Surgery in Manhattan states, “In the past, people thought that a neurological deficit was fixed and immutable. Now there’s this whole concept of neuroplasticity: the neurological system has this ability to change itself and constantly grow.”

Wow. Sandy was right. We can teach our bodies new tricks. I’m not talking simply about strength and flexibility, the more straightforward and common limiting factors. Rather I’m talking about whole new connections. Moving body parts that seemed frozen. Or moving with improved coordination and posture. Or balancing on limbs (or a limb) once too wobbly. If Mozgala can reawaken his body and transform his gait, it’s a lesson to us all.

Mozgala’s step-by-step learning reminded me of Iyengar yoga, which requires constant observation of the entire body, from crown of the head to fingers and toes. Likewise, he employed specific instructions to help maintain awareness in daily life, off the dance floor. (Of course, his cues, “sternum down, tailbone up,” are the opposite of ours!)

Bottom line: if you can’t move your toes, arch your thoracic spine, or balance in handstand … don’t give up.

Image: yvetteAL

 

Sigg as scapegoat?

First, let me say that I’m never been gaga over Sigg. I own no Sigg bottles. In fact, I’m not big on carrying water bottles around. I generally drink lots of water at home (in glasses and mugs). Hanging out at a cafe, I use their tableware. Working out at a gym, I drink from water fountains. The only time I “need” a water bottle is when traveling, hiking, or otherwise in the boonies. So, I’ve always found Sigg bottles catchy and cute, but rather expensive and not a necessary purchase.

In October, I was astounded at the outcry over Sigg’s revelation that their pre-2008 liner contained a trace amount of bisphenol A (BPA). Tests have proven that the old liners do not leach, but Sigg created a new liner to avoid any hint of contamination.

If Sigg claimed that their bottles were BPA-free, that was misleading. They should have been 100% clear. But, come on. Aren’t there bigger threats?

Why not go after investment banks, oil conglomerates, or big pharma? What about the multinational companies that manufacture in China, source of tainted pet food, infant formula, and construction materials? Shouldn’t we be concerned that Sarah Palin’s forthcoming memoir is a runaway bestseller?

As for health scandals, how come no one’s complaining about the BPA in canned goods? Shouldn’t we, like Mayor Bloomberg, go ballistic about trans fats, neatly hidden in popular supermarket crackers and cookies? And have you ever calculated the number of calories and fat in Starbucks monstrosities and movie popcorn? Why slam Sigg and then eat a tub of movie popcorn?

Sigg is such a minor offender. But it’s an easy target. And it somehow offended the green/eco types who so ardently championed the stylish Swiss-made aluminum bottle over its predecessor, the economical, everyman Nalgene.

I found out about the scandal from a close friend with a three-year-old I’ll call T. Mommy exchanged T’s old bottle (white with farm animals) for a new one (lavender with underwater flora, chosen with remarkable decisiveness by T). Okay. Stick to the safe side with kids.

Initially I was wary of the liner. I offered to exchange my boyfriend’s Sigg bottle for him, figuring that he (being a guy) would forgo the replacement offer. Me? Returns, exchanges, and customer complaints are among my specialties. But, the more I thought about it, the more I realized there was nothing really wrong with the bottle.

It was barely used. It was not leaching BPA. And, by returning it to Sigg, it would end up as junk. Aluminum is recyclable but not biodegradable, although it does decompose very slowly (think 500 years for an aluminum can). Siggs are advertised as recyclable, but are they really? My city’s curbside recycling program doesn’t take them. I pictured a gargantuan mountain of discarded Siggs, once desirable, now junk.

My boyfriend’s Sigg avoided the ax.

 

The font guy

I recently posted a YogaSpy flyer at the studio I attend. I’m trying to garner a local audience, for comments from people in my own community. Because I’m still somewhat anonymous, I can’t go around telling folks about my blog. Hence, the flyer.

I wasted an inordinate amount of time choosing a font. Ever fool around with all the fonts in Word? Just convert a sentence to this or that font and … presto! … the whole vibe of the words change.

I ended up with Papyrus (overused but still charming), plus my URL in bold Times New Roman for contrast.

It reminded me of the time my grad school classmate Helena and I launched a business. While we eventually hired a graphic designer to do a unique logo for us, we initially went to Kinko’s for simple, but tasteful, cards. We were pretty picky about details, and we debated over which font to use. The guy at the counter referred us to another staffer known as the “font guy.” He knew everything about typefaces, about their histories and visual effects, about which capital “S” (or whatever letter) was particularly attractive.

Helena and I were quite amused by his obsession with fonts. It delighted me, actually. When people are into something, it’s rather contagious.

I see so much boredom in people, especially when they’re doing mundane work or killing time before their “real life” might begin. I’m sure we’ve all dealt with salesclerks who know nothing about their own merchandise, whether at big-box chains, or cafes, or the lululemon shop in town.

It’s really a matter of attitude. Sure, a job or role might be only a waystation, but it can still be interesting, it can still matter. One can be an expert in any niche.