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A Well-Rounded 90 minute Practice

1 Oct

Spritz Fritz

Let me tell you a true story about egoism, disgrace, and a bottle of perfume. It was the late 1990s, I was fresh out of law school and I had just spent the longest year of my life working as an articling student at a downtown law firm. It was a good year in some ways: the money was outstanding, I learned lots, and my parents were brimming over with pride. The experience was also pivotal because it confirmed a growing suspicion that the legal profession was not for me. Call it negative research, if you will. And so I walked away from the firm’s job offer, applied for unemployment insurance and broke my parents’ hearts.

The thing is, while I had some clarity on what I didn’t want, I still hadn’t figured out what I actually wanted to do with my life. It wasn’t unlike that feeling you get when you’ve left Mr. or Mrs. Wrong but you don’t have much faith that Mr. or Mrs. Right will come along. It was a groundless and edgy time. In the meantime, my rent was due and I started to have anxiety-filled dreams about the mountain of student debt I incurred to become a lawyer.

Around this time, a friend’s mother took pity on my situation and offered me a job to tide me over while I plotted the next step on my career path. She was an upper level manager at a swanky department store and the job she offered me was almost too good to be true; it would’ve paid more money for less work than my legal job, but there was a major catch: the department store was located in the same commercial complex as my former law firm and the job would have had me standing in a conspicuous location holding a bottle of perfume while my former colleagues walked by. I could just imagine their pitying looks. “Poor thing,” they would say to each other as soon as they were out of earshot, “she couldn’t cut it as a lawyer. Just look at her now.”

The perceived tumble from lawyer to perfume spritz girl was too much for me to handle. My poor, fragile ego couldn’t deal with the shame, the disgrace, the loss of face, and so I turned down the job. What happened next? Well, pride goeth before the fall, as they say. I don’t mind admitting that I spent another six months or so broke and in a minor funk. I lost touch with my yoga practice, sat in front of the TV for days at a time, and had nothing to show for the time off but a pile of bills and a few extra pounds. In the end, I took another lawyering job out of necessity and spent another five or six years figuring out what I already knew—that I wanted more from my life than financial security and an impressive title.

In hindsight, the perfume spritz incident was a stark lesson in something Master Patanjali calls egoism (asmita). In book II, sutra 3 of the Yoga Sutras, he says egoism is one of the five major obstacles to true happiness and freedom. The others are ignorance of who we really are (avidya), excessive craving (raga), excessive aversion (dvesha), and fear of death (abhinivesah). He implies in this list that our ignorance of who we really are causes us to over-identify with our ego selves and that misidentification causes us to chase our selfish, petty desires, on the one hand, and cower from anything that challenges our ego identities on the other hand, especially the death of the body.

One of my teachers says we spend the first part of our lives acquiring our ego identities and the remainder of our lives defending them at any cost—even when it hurts us and the people we love. Does this mean we should abandon our egos and adopt an egoless existence? Good luck—that’s like asking the mind to stop thinking—it’s next to impossible. As yogis, it’s incumbent upon us to cultivate beautiful, graceful egos, in the same way we build strong, flexible bodies and elevated minds. Let’s make our egos our allies, rather than our enemies, and use them to assist our movement towards greater happiness and freedom. And don’t forget that when push comes to shove, you are not your mind, you are not your body and you are so, so much more than your job.

A 45 minute Beginners’ Class

13 May

A Fresh Start

Not long before I officially traded in my legal career for the life of a yoga teacher, I had one of those pivotal, change-everything-in-the-blink-of-an-eye experiences en route to a dental cleaning. It was a hot August afternoon and I remember cursing the overly air-conditioned office environment I had just left (the one I called home during waking hours) as I sweltered along in skirt suit and nylons. Passing a busy patio, filled with carefree bohemian-types relaxing over pints, I caught myself muttering under my breath: “who exactly are these people who loaf around on patios all day? I mean, don’t they have jobs to go to or something?” Busted—I was already becoming a sour-faced professional, filled with outrage and moral indignation, and I hadn’t even made partner yet.

Now that I’ve retired my suits and crossed over to the other side, I don’t mind admitting the outrage and indignation were probably just envy in disguise. Really, who wouldn’t want to spend less time living for work and more time living it up?

The thing is, most of us assume we don’t have much choice in the matter—we feel bound by honor, familial pressure, and/or our current financial obligations to walk the straight and narrow path to sustenance and stability, if not exactly riches and respect—and so we defer the real stuff till later. Much later. We say, “when I retire, I’ll see the world, write short stories, paint, meditate, do good deeds, spend more time with my loved ones….”

But, in actuality, we just don’t know if and when this will all come about; the moments of this life are fleeting, as one of my teachers likes to point out, and we don’t all have the luxury of growing old before we die.

We also happen to be living at a time when traditional assumptions about the way things work no longer hold true. Author, journalist, editor, and critic, Bruce Sterling brought the point home for me earlier this year in his post on the “State of the World, 2009” when he wrote:

I’m a bohemian type, so I could scarcely be bothered to do anything
“financially sound” in my entire adult life. Last year was the first
year when I’ve felt genuinely sorry for responsible, well-to-do people.
Suddenly they’ve got the precariousness of creatives, of the
underclass, without that gleeful experience of decades spent
living-it-up.

Perhaps the time has come for us to reconsider the terms of both the social contract and the deal we’ve made with our innermost selves. Did you make your career choices freely, unfettered by external forces? Did you fully understand what you were getting yourself into? Did you get what you bargained for? And most importantly, are you happy with the results of your choice today?

No doubt, these are big questions that lead to even bigger questions, but they seem to be front and center for an increasing community of people who are actively re-examining what they want to do and who they want to be.

I’m delighted to have friends who are brave enough to make a fresh start (I’m thinking of the corporate manager who moved to Australia and started teachers’ college in her forties, the seasoned IT professional who recently enrolled in massage school, and the CEO who left his corner office to work in the public interest); I’m delighted to have friends who wholeheartedly pursue their artistic and spiritual callings; and I’m delighted to have friends who keep checking in with themselves as they continue to run their businesses and go to their day jobs.

There was a time when the decision to follow my passion, rather than a pension, felt like a big deal. I’m happy to say I don’t feel so special anymore—the tribe is growing day-by-day and I’m in good company. Great company, actually. Why not pull up a patio chair and join us?

A Grounding 75 minute Practice

16 Apr

The Worm Bin Teachings

I’ve started a new daily practice, one I do before washing my face, unrolling my yoga mat, or having a cup of tea: it’s the practice of getting down-and-dirty—quite literally—and it’s every bit as important as any other spiritual practice I do. Every morning, I pop open the lid on one of the five homemade worm bins in the living room, dig around, and get some dirt under my nails. Sometimes it’s just to say hello to our ever growing family of red wigglers and confirm our kitchen scraps are to their liking; other times it’s to harvest their nutrient rich castings for use in our garden.

Now how exactly does an urban, condo-dwelling, clean-freak from way back come to have a number of sizable compost bins in her living room, you might ask? It began quite innocently with this niggling feeling that I could be living a greener life. Sure, I’ve always recycled, used CFLs and followed the “if it’s yellow” rule, but it still concerns me that our North American lifestyles are so resource and waste intensive. Doesn’t it boggle your mind that the average North American consumes 32 times more resources and produces 32 times more waste than citizens in developing nations?

At the moment, our city’s green bin program doesn’t collect compostables from apartment buildings, condos or businesses. As a result, a full two-thirds of our weekly garbage used to be composed of smelly kitchen waste, that we double and triple bagged to avoid leaks. No wonder I felt both sheepish and relieved every garbage day when I put the whole mess in someone else’s hands.

My adventures in worm composting started with a half pound of worms, ordered online, and a rubbermaid container. I drilled holes in the container, for ventilation and drainage, filled it with a generous amount of torn up newspaper and put it out on the deck for the summer.

The moment of truth arrived with the first frost. Left outside, I knew the worms wouldn’t make it through a harsh Canadian winter, but I couldn’t quite fathom having a box of worms and rotting food in the house for six months either. In the end, I grudgingly chose inconvenience over frozen worms, and the worms moved in.

Surprisingly enough, the bins don’t smell. If anything, worm compost smells fresh and clean, like rich, dark earth after a rainfall. And, no, we don’t have worms, fruit flies or other pests in our living room—the worms stay put, that is unless you feed them something they don’t like (they follow a basic vegetarian diet, and stay away from anything too salty, oily or acidic) or forget to feed them altogether, and we avoid fruit flies by burying the sweet stuff deep in the bins. I’m thrilled because we’ve significantly reduced the amount of garbage we put out on the curb each week, including paper and cardboard. And, yes, we do intend to keep the bins indoors all year round.

I think of my earthworm practice as a way to get grounded and set my foundation before getting swept-up in the headiness of a busy day. It reminds me of my oneness with the earth and all its inhabitants, and, as such, it’s a yogic practice in the deepest sense of the word. My time with the worms is a death meditation, an exercise in loving-kindness, and a way to focus the mind on the sweet details of the here-and-now, all rolled into one.

A Deep 10 minute Savasana

28 Feb

Feeling Blue

When e.e. cummings wrote: “For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), It’s always our self we find in the sea,” do you think he contemplated the possibility that we might lose the very sea itself one of these days? In the fifty some-odd years since he penned these words, much has changed on our watery planet, and fragile marine ecosystems everywhere are under serious threat from overfishing, pollution, and climate change. The facts are alarming:

■ Humans have taken—eaten, actually—more than 90% of the big fish in the ocean, including tuna, swordfish, marlin, cod, halibut, and flounder. Some of the world’s most productive fishing grounds have been depleted and entire coastal economies have collapsed. If current trends in industrial fishing continue, scientists predict the world’s fish and seafood populations will be totally extinct by 2048.

■ Much of the waste we produce on land eventually reaches the oceans through both deliberate dumping and run-off. In coastal areas, untreated sewage and fertilizer are responsible for algal blooms that suffocate other marine life and create enormous dead zones. According to a recent study, there are 405 dead zones and counting.

■ Nearly half the coral reefs have disappeared. They are among the first casualties of climate change. Higher surface water temperatures have resulted in coral bleaching, while ocean acidification due to rising carbon dioxide levels is making it harder for coral to build their calcium carbonate shells. The rising sea levels, decreases in sea ice cover, changes in salinity, shifts in ocean circulation and increased storms that come with climate change will undoubtedly change marine life forever.

If we care at all about the fate of our seas, we humans need to be more mindful about what we take out of and what we put into the water.

Why should we care? Well, for starters, over three quarters of our planet is covered by water and up to 60% of our bodies are composed of water. All life came from the ocean and 90% of life on earth still resides there. Healthy oceans are absolutely necessary for a healthy planet. We land dwelling creatures mustn’t make the fatal error of thinking we’re immune to cataclysmic, or even subtle, changes at sea.

On the bright side, it’s now easier than ever to stay abreast of the issues: as of earlier this month, Google Earth includes the oceans in its maps. This means users can now dive underwater, see ocean topography, and watch regions change over time. You can get it all free at Google Earth.

Compelling and eye-opening information from leading ocean researchers is also just a mouse-click away. Legendary oceanographer, Sylvia Earle’s extraordinary TEDTalk, “Here’s How to Protect the Blue Heart of the Planet,” has been spreading virally online since it was delivered in mid-February. Educational and inspirational, it’s a must-see for anyone who dares to care about the planet and its inhabitants.

I’m also greatly buoyed by the fact that people like my friend Jeff Warren, an author and explorer of consciousness, are still out there during these turbulent times looking to the sea for insights into the true self. His most excellent radio documentary, Ocean Mind, explores the world of dolphins and whales as a way of moving beyond the confines of the human experience. Episode 2 is a favourite of mine. As Jeff explains: “This episode is about the limits of human knowledge. It’s about imagination and empathy – and science – and how we may be able use all of these things to get insights into the fantastic alien world of the great whales.”

Hoping for a taste of this “fantastic alien world,” I spent an hour in a flotation tank earlier this month. I went in expecting something completely outside the realm of my experience, but was, instead, pleasantly reminded of the time I spend on my yoga mat lying in savasana, or corpse pose.

The way I figure it, yogis are experts at stepping outside the human unwelt, a German word usually translated as “self-centered world.” We try on the various forms of nature—in dog, tree, and even fish pose—partly as a way to get over ourselves and partly as a way to gain insight into the essence that underlies all form so that we may better know ourselves.

A Quiet 30 minute Practice

26 Jan

New Moon on Monday

The Lunar New Year begins today, and Astrologers are excited about the fact that the first new moon of the year coincides with both a solar eclipse and Mercury in retrograde. Apparently that’s a pretty big deal. During this time, we’re advised to stay in, be quiet, contemplate life, and catch-up with ourselves. It is not the right time, they say, for any wheeling and dealing or busywork.

Senior Ashtanga Yoga teachers tell us this isn’t the best time to practice physically challenging forms of yoga either. Why? Because the energy of the new moon corresponds to the very end of the exhalation, where the force of our apana (the downward facing energy in our bodies, governing elimination, menstruation, childbirth, and creative endeavors) is strongest. A yogi practicing under the influence of the new moon might feel more lethargic, heavy and physically uncoordinated than usual. This is one the reasons why women are commonly advised not to practice strongly on the first day of their monthly cycles.

Like everything else, our lives, bodies and yoga practices tend to move cyclically. It makes sense: we’re watery beings on a watery planet and we can’t help but feel the influence of the sun, the moon and the stars as they move through their own cycles. It would be naÏve to think we’re immune to the forces that move oceans, shape rock, and cause plants to unfurl their leaves.

But our busy, modern lives can be numbing and flattening, and many of us feel disconnected from natural cycles. For example, there are so called privileged people who live in downtown condominiums situated on top of a subway stations who can go an entire winter in Canada without a coat. Sure, they’ve found a way to escape the cold, but they do so at the expense of feeling the wind on their faces.

Girls and women now have the option of totally eradicating their periods with a pill. Sure, they no longer have to deal with PMS or uncomfortable and inconvenient menses, but they do so at the expense of being fully present with their heightened senses, deepest intuitions, and emotional authority. You’ve got to wonder what we really lose when we turn away from the seemingly awkward, messy and uncomfortable side of life.

The practices of hatha yoga teach us to honour both sun (ha) and moon (tha) as we seek wholeness, integration and balance (yoga). These are practices for waking-up to the totality of human experience, and that means our daily practice needs to be flexible, sensitive and nuanced; sometimes we need to jump around, sometimes we need to lie still, and sometimes we need to get off our mats altogether.

Hey, here’s a cute joke for the Lunar New Year:

Did you hear about the restaurant on the moon?
It has great food, but no atmosphere.

May the upcoming year bring you much nourishment!

Image courtesy of Phil Hart

An Economical 45 minute Practice

14 Jan

Shopping for our Souls

If there’s a silver lining to the dark cloud of the global financial crisis, for me, it’s that I’ve become a choosier consumer as of late. Sure, the years of yogic living went a long way towards curing me of the belief that I could shop my way to the good life, but the bottom had to fall out of the economy before I eased up on the spiritual materialism.

You know what I’m talking about: spiritual materialism is, at it’s most obvious, a fascination with mala beads, statuettes of Ganesh, eco-friendly yoga mats, and designer yoga togs; it’s the impulse to continually expand an already sizable library of spiritual reading material, CDs, and DVDs; and it’s the burning desire to be at every workshop, yoga conference and retreat in the hopes of gleaning some practical wisdom. I know I’m not alone in this because American yogis are estimated to spend almost $3 billion USD annually on classes and products.

Spiritual materialism probably goes hand-in-hand with an increase in spiritual choice—which is a good thing in and of itself. Yoga practitioners today have an unprecedented range of options available to them: there are more brands of yoga than ever before; many North American cities now have a yoga studio on every corner, while places like New York have two, three or more per block; saints and sages can be seen at stops on their world tours or accessed online; and book stores everywhere have entire shelves devoted to yoga and meditation. It’s all right there at our fingertips, and that’s a real blessing.

Don’t forget, widespread access to yoga is a relatively recent phenomenon. Eastern spirituality and the practices of yoga really came into the North American consciousness less than 40 years ago when India became both pilgrimage site and playground for throngs of hippies seeking mind-expansion and a good time. Ram Dass wrote his landmark bestseller, Be Here Now, in 1971 after meeting his guru, the Indian saint Neem Karoli Baba. David Williams, the first non-Indian to be taught the Ashtanga Yoga system of asanas from K. Pattabhi Jois, brought the first vinyasa yoga practice to America in 1975. Still considered a part of the counterculture, yoga only moved fully into the mainstream in the 1990s.

The thing is, too much choice can be a curse, and easy access to abundant options can give rise to a number of pitfalls. These include:

■ apathy (“I’ll start yoga, painting, and gardening when I retire.”)

■ indecision (“Iyengar, Ashtanga, Kripalu… where to begin?”)

■ over-ambition (“I’m just starting my fourth yoga teacher training.”)

■ superficiality (“Been there, done that, got the chakra T-shirt.”)

In this age of almost infinite choice, the art of choosing wisely is a practice unto itself.

In the Yoga Sutras, the sage Patanjali recommends we cultivate viveka, or discriminative wisdom, as a way to end the pain and suffering caused by our inability to see what is real and our tendency to look for comfort in the unreal or disposable (II.26). In short, you’ve got it made if you can discern the difference between the real and the unreal. Easy enough, right?

Perhaps not. As Swami Satchidananda explains, the exercise of discriminative wisdom goes beyond simply distinguishing between sugar and salt . However, we can start to cultivate viveka by taking our time, doing our research and looking honestly at our own motivations as we make mindful choices in our lives.

In a way, we’re fortunate to live at a time when it’s all up for grabs. During times like this, the implications of our actions are thrown into high relief. Everything matters. Everything counts. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty excited about voting with my dollars and shopping—or choosing not to shop—for the sake of my soul.

A 75 minute Core Practice

24 Dec

 Here Comes the Sun

While the longest night of the year has come and gone with the winter solstice, it feels like we might still have a way to go on our annual journey back to the light. Granted, long nights have much to offer—think of all the extra time for quiet contemplation, journaling and reading while cozying up with a steaming mug of something or other—but the lack of sunlight can also be a little depressing.

A surprising number of spiritual traditions share the concept of a dark night of the soul—a painful, but necessary, initiatory phase in a person’s spiritual life, characterized by a certain anguish, loneliness, despair and even physical illness. A shamanic initiatory crisis, for example, might involve both a psychological breakdown and life threatening illness during which the initiate has the experience of being transported to the spirit realms and dismantled or devoured before being reassembled anew.

The dark night of the soul ultimately brings integration, but it achieves its ends through a process of disintegrating the entanglements of ego. It may not be pretty, but as St. John of the Cross, the Christian mystic who coined the phrase explained, “…the endurance of darkness is preparation for great light,” and that’s downright beautiful.

Chanting the Gayatri Mantra is a lovely way for yogis to invoke the light on dark nights. Considered to be the holiest verse of the Vedas, these lines honor the sun as the source of light and life:

oṃ bhūr bhuvaḥ svaḥ
(a) tat savitur vareṇyaṃ
(b) bhargo devasya dhīmahi
(c) dhiyo yo naḥ prachodayāt

Here’s a translation by Manorama D’Alvia: Earth space heavens. We meditate on the divine light of the radiant source. May that inspire our hearts and thoughts.

A Quick 30 minute Practice

10 Dec

Time-Out

We’re running out of time, that much is clear: the population bomb continues to tick, an unprecedented number of species are facing total extinction, Arctic sea ice is melting much faster than anticipated, peak oil may have already come and gone, and the very pillars of the global economy are crumbling as we speak. The details may vary depending on whom you speak to, but the chorus of voices predicting the end of days is now too loud to comfortably ignore.

In actuality, we don’t need a Mayan Calendar, ancient prophesies, modern science, or the news media to tell us things are changing… and fast. But I, for one, have always worked well under pressure and I kind of like the notion of using 2012, the Doomsday Clock and the 100 month countdown to the climate tipping point as memes to an end—that is, as tools to motivate and structure intelligent discussion and practical action. As my friend Daniel Pinchbeck, an authority on the Mayan prophesy, explains:

“My view is that ‘2012’ is useful as a meme if it helps us to catalyze a shift in global culture and consciousness. Rather than fretting about what may or may not happen on that date, we should concentrate on the work that needs to be done now, on an inner as well as outer level.”

So put up your Mayan calendar, synchronize your Doomsday watch and write your 100 month strategic plan for sustainable living. And don’t delay, for you may have less time than you think.

A 60 minute Balancing Practice

26 Nov

Blindness, Yoga and the Magic Eye

It was within the first year of my yoga practice that I lost the vision in my left eye. Awakening one morning to the sound of the dreaded alarm clock, I was truly alarmed to discover a dark curtain obscuring my view. “It’s a rare disease;” said the retinal specialist, “we don’t know what causes it, but it could be stress-related.” How ironic, I thought I was impervious to stress, always turning a blind eye to the pressures that came along with the life of a newly minted lawyer. Now I really had a blind eye, and that changed everything.

Feeling dejected, I left my job, apartment and life in the city, and moved-in with my parents to convalesce. There, I mostly slept my days away until my concerned mother came home with an armload of books-on-tape from the local library, including some on yoga and meditation. Not long after that, I attended my first yoga retreat with her encouragement. I went seeking stress relief, but found something much greater, in the form of a teacher who would open my eyes to the depth and beauty of this life. Lying on my mat after toppling out of headstand one day, I had a Road to Damascus moment when he said: “Sometimes it takes a good catastrophe to wake you up.” My ego was bruised but I was grateful for the wake-up call.

One model for the step-by-step awakening of human consciousness tells us the sense of sight is linked to the ego identity and the strong impulse to establish one’s name, fame and fortune. Certainly, the ego-self is very interested in appearances—constantly striving to keep up with the Jones’—and it’s all too easily seduced by the glittering surfaces of things. Just try a yoga class in a mirrored room to feel where the attention goes.

“I shut my eyes in order to see,” proclaimed visionary French painter, Paul Gauguin. Like Gauguin, us yogis understand that a conventional outlook can obscure more profound ways of seeing. Like aspirants in many spiritual traditions, we train ourselves to look beyond superficial appearances so we can access deeper insights. In other words, we actively try to cultivate an enlightened point of view. This enlightened perception is symbolized by the third eye (also called the inner eye, the eye of wisdom, ajna chakra, and the seat of the inner guru) and this perception is said to be extra-sensory because it transcends the five senses.

One of the training tools we use to refine the way we see is the technique of drishti, or yogic gazing. Students of Ashtanga Yoga are taught to direct their gaze to one of nine points in each asana: (1) third-eye; (2) tip of nose; (3) navel; (4) hand; (5) big toes; (6) thumbs; (7) far right; (8) far left; and (9) infinity. The gaze is soft—you never stare—because you’re actually looking into, or beyond, the prescribed physical points. Drishti is not only an effective way to keep the mind from wandering, but it’s also a metaphor for continually fixing your attention on the subtle inner essence that underlies all form.

Yogic gazing is a little like looking at one of those Magic Eye images. If you know how to look, you can see the three-dimensional image in the two-dimensional jumble. Sure, single-pointed concentration is required, but it’s not enough on its own; you need to relax into it and be patient while maintaining your faith that there’s more than meets the eye. In a moment, something shifts and the meaningless becomes meaningful. The funny thing is, once you’ve seen the magic it’s hard to fathom how you missed it.

In the course of every life there is a deep magic at work—call it God, call it the ancestors, call it karma or the universe, whatever you please, really. The important thing is that you care enough to look for it. After all, they say enlightenment is just a shift in perception away.

Here’s a beautiful Sanskrit chant, along with my teacher’s translation, that sheds some light on the subject:

Om, guru Brahma, guru Vishnu, guru devo Maheshvara
Guru sak shat, param brahma, tas mayi shri guruvay namaha
(Guru Stotram)

Our creation is that guru; the duration of our lives is that guru; the trials, illnesses, calamities and the death of the body is that guru. There is a guru that is nearby, and a guru that is beyond the beyond. May I have the good sense to see and recognize the guru, the remover of darkness.

Image courtesy of MagicEye3Ds. Can you see the hidden image? Contact me if you need a hint.

A 60 minute Backbending Practice

12 Nov

Insects, Yoga and Ayahuasca

Fold your wings, like this dear, and tuck them underneath you,” said an unfamiliar, though kindly, voice that seemed to emanate from inside my head.

“My wings?” I asked aloud, confused by the instructions. “Do you mean my legs?”

“Yes, yes, bend your legs… and your other legs too.”

And so began what can only be described as a yoga asana lesson taught to me by a startlingly large praying mantis-like creature during an ayahuasca ceremony in the Peruvian Amazon.

Paying little heed to a nagging injury that would normally prevent such movement, I did as I was told and suddenly I found myself in a surprisingly deep series of backbends, fit for the pages of a yoga magazine. Before the mind could protest, I moved spontaneously from pose-to-pose with a sense of ease and playful power. Upon rising the following morning, I was amazed to find my body retained all of its newfound strength and suppleness. And with no sign of the old injury, I demonstrated what I’d learned for my duly impressed partner: what I’d learned from the praying mantis was a group of back-bending poses known in yoga circles as the “insect series.”

As a longtime proponent of the whole yogic lifestyle-thing—no meat, alcohol, caffeine or late nights for me, thank you—I was initially reluctant to participate in the ayahuasca ceremony, despite the Amazonian tea’s reputation as a sacred plant medicine of the highest order. Like many, I had heard horror stories about violent ayahuasca-induced purges and, on a practical level, I wondered how I would do my morning yoga practice if the all-night affair left me nauseous, weak and sore. I also had lingering concerns that the psychoactive brew could somehow undo years of disciplined practice and virtuous living and destabilize my physical and energetic bodies, not to mention what it might do to my calm mind.

Though curious, I waited almost five years before I agreed to experience ayahuasca for the first time. The change of heart came after a meeting with an internationally-renowned yoga teacher who drew a strong parallel between ayahuasca and the mythical ritual drink Soma, which is described in the Rigveda as nothing less than the nectar of immortality: “We have drunk Soma and become immortal; we have attained the light, the Gods discovered” (8.48.3, as translated by RTH Griffith). “Well,” I thought, “if it’s good enough for the Gods, enlightened beings and celebrity yoga teachers….”

The praying mantis yoga lesson was the first of many yogic teachings that have come to me in ceremony. Sometimes the ayahuasca makes me move around—mostly wild inversions and heart-blossoming backbends—and sometimes it puts me into deep states of meditation—where my breath all but disappears into the stillness of my being. Even the dreaded purges feel good and cleansing in a way—not so different from the seemingly strange purification practices prescribed in the ancient yoga manual, the Hatha Yoga Pradipika, when it comes right down to it.

Perhaps most significantly, I was initiated into the practice of Nada Yoga (the yoga of sound) during a ceremony. It happened when I began to perceive what yogis call the inner music—the primal sound signified by OM—which came, at first, in a dazzling symphony of clanging bells, snare drums and cosmic sitars. During that same night, the hinge joint of my jaw popped wide open and music and poetry flowed unstoppably from my mouth for several hours. The telepathic message I received—this time from a cheering chorus of insects and amphibians—was that, as a yogi, I have an obligation to literally open my mouth wider and speak-out on behalf of those who can’t.

Ayahuasca took my yoga off the mat and made my practice practical. At one time, I did poses such as locust, scorpion, cobra, dog, and tree without thinking too much about their correlates in the natural world; they were little more than exercises with fanciful names. Now it seems obvious that before there were yoga studios, designer yoga-wear lines and sticky mats, the yogis took their teachings from nature. The first yoga teachers were the plants, the animals and, yes, the insects too. They say the practice of yoga is directly informed by nature and I finally get on a cellular level why yogis have such a close friendship with the earth—because we’re not separate from her.

Much like the yoga practice itself, ayahuasca and other plant medicines are said to have the ability to reunite human consciousness with natural and supernatural rhythms. Taken with the correct intention, they can help catalyze a profound shift in our all-too-limited take on things. With the radical deepening and broadening of perspective comes a new brand of happiness—the real stuff that lasts and lasts. Experience teaches that when I stop thinking about myself and connect to the other—even when the other is something as alien as a giant praying mantis—I put some space between myself and my mental afflictions. What flows from that space is the taste of freedom.

In the Yoga Sutras, the sage Patanjali explained that spiritual attainments leading to liberation can arise from drugs or chemical means, as well as from yogic practices such as mantra recitation, performance of austerities and samadhi, which is union of individual consciousness with divine consciousness (book IV, sutra 1). Interestingly, practices such as pranayama (breath control) and asana (physical exercise)—the two most important components of modern yoga practice in the West—are considered chemical means, according to Shri Brahmananda Sarasvati, because they work by causing biochemical changes in the body and mind.

Scientists have found DMT—a powerful hallucinogen and one of the primary psychoactive ingredients in ayahuasca—occurring naturally in the human body. It is reportedly released by the pineal gland (what yogis refer to as the third eye) and stored at the base of the spine, where kundalini shakti is said to lie dormant until activated. Yogis have long known that transcendent experiences are accessible through certain yogic practices. Certainly the “yoga high” is what keeps me and, I’m sure, millions of other yogis coming back to the mat day-after-day.

While some may scoff at the notion of seeking enlightenment through stretching and psychedelics, the reality is this stuff works. It’s not just talk: it’s experiential and tangible and it taps you into something big and juicy. As one of my teachers likes to say: plant teachers aren’t exclusive to South America and India doesn’t own the rights to yoga. As a modern-day seeker, it feels like I’m just now coming into my spiritual birthright—it just took a giant insect to show me the way.

This article by Padmani originally appeared on Reality Sandwich and is included in Toward 2012: Perspectives on the Next Age