We inhale and exhale, sweeping our bodies from one direction to the next, moving from one posture to another, we are making shapes, we are moving energy, we are slowly shaving off the excess with painstaking compulsion, the way an archeologist might excavate ancient ruins with a soft bristle brush, one careful stroke at a time, determined but wary of damaging the unknowable treasures that possibility lie beneath…

At least that’s how I feel on the days that I am patient with myself and with the practice–that each breath is a soft breeze blowing on my massive pile of dirt, gently carving out the me underneath it all, the one I’d really like to get to. The other times, well…I’m actually shoveling away, pushing and prodding, making new mounds of dirt before getting bored and starting at a new spot. It’s tough work this business of personal excavation.

After years of yoga practice, I can honestly say that as much as I’ve uncovered (and the amount of discoveries have been significant!) there always seems to be more underneath the surface, more evidence, more history, and with every find, more questions. I’ve been big on digging deep, on self-inquiry and detective work. And because I can be quite heady and I like to figure things out, I’ve taken it all very seriously.

But even this noble intention of self-discovery has its pitfalls. Expectations are laced with disappointments. To look ahead towards a future destination pulls us away from the journey at hand and, ultimately, the present moment. I often wonder, if by throwing myself so doggedly into “process,” I have also pulled myself away from the spirit of practice, true sadhana.

On a recent retreat to Ardi in Dashour, Egypt, a group of us went to visit the nearby Red Pyramid. We went in and walked around, all of us in quiet awe of the 104 meter-tall (341-feet) structure built around 2600BCE, a precursor to the Giza pyramids. Archeologists, historians and Egyptologists have studied the pyramid extensively, they know its dimensions, what it’s made of, who built it and for what purpose, and yet we continue to marvel at the mystery of it, its strangeness, its un-fathomability.

What if practice were less about unlocking the mysteries and more about seeing them and acknowledging them? What if I simply accepted that I am my mound of dirt, my hidden treasures, my ancient stories, my lost city, or that there might not be much there at all, and went on to breathe into the whole lot of it anyway, enjoying the mystery of being, rather than constantly trying to figure it out? What if I looked at myself, not as a problem to be solved but a puzzle to revel in and dive into. The destination might be the same in the end, but I reckon the journey would be different.

Personally, I vacillate between the pull of my own ego and the spiritual practice. I know the lessons, not to grasp and not to reach. But I’ve also been taught to put in appropriate effort, to cultivate discipline and a healthy attachment towards my practice–a little too much effort, however, and I cross a line between willfulness and surrender, and there I struggle. And where is the joy in that?

In the end, practice is practice. We’ll shift and move even if we don’t mean to.

The ongoing excavations are unlikely to stop for me, not only have I been at it a while, I actually like digging. But I also want to cultivate more contentment being In Mystery. I want to understand that I  don’t have to understand everything about myself, that not knowing has a function, that uncertainty contains magic and possibility.  Once again, here is the recurring lesson, think less and just practice; all is still coming.

 

It is a world of bright vermillion, emboldened by the afternoon sun, slits of light and forest green flicker through from above and from the sides like an old moving picture. Wooden torii gates of all sizes mark the paths up and down the mountain. And to walk underneath them is discovering an older Japan, a land full of holy places, gods and spirits.

After the main entrance of the shrine, the smaller wooden torii gates are thin, low and narrow, closely bundled together. To walk through them, is like being pulled gently through a tunnel; the transportation into another world begins. This is the rabbit hole in which dear Alice falls and falls and falls, dropping down into a reality in which perspective is suddenly different. The experience here, however, is much gentler, much more wonder-full, without the slightest feeling of struggle. I become small or the gates grow bigger (depending on the perspective) further up the mountain. They vary in size, but never again so small or tightly knit as that first level.
Walking up Fushimi Inari shrine, built in 711AD, in Kyoto, Japan is an experience. It feels magical and out of time. Even with throngs of tourists bustling past or falling behind, the journey up and down the mountain lends itself to quiet isolation.

It becomes more quiet the higher up the mountain–at least late in the afternoon–people are more sparse, simply dropping away, both literally and figuratively, as many turn back, feeling daunted by the seemingly unending torii. I, on the other hand, feel challenged, I want to know where it goes, I want to complete it. (This rationale gotten me to scale some pretty interesting heights).

I have been looking forward to returning here. Some places you can see once and that’s enough. We tourists are always looking for something new to titalize the senses. But Fushimi Inari, the memory of it–I knew I wanted to go up it again.

Torii gates are symbols of the passage between one reality to another, between the everyday to the spiritual world. For me, walking beneath these red-orange gates is a ritual that actualizes a spiritual journey, in a way that the ashtanga practice, aptly “sadhana,” similarly does, as well.

Breathing, moving through the postures, holding a posture those full five breaths–each posture, each breath is a gate, through which our body must move and from which the body emerges more subtle, purified by action, and more fortified too. The physical practice softens the body, and with it the mind. Slowly, these movements in space help move us up and down that deep internal mountain with its sometimes sweepingly gentle curves, other times steep ascents and descents, sharp turns, and, on occasion, fairly flat ground.

Our practice, which starts with surya namaskar, recalls rituals of old, morning prostrations that connect us to nature, the nature that is all around us, but the one within too, all of it connected to the Absolute. By getting on the mat, we engage in a ritual of sublime regularity, it is a transportation device that brings us closer to our spiritual world.

Fushimi Inari, the Ashtanga yoga practice, and other rituals of spiritual transport serve the purpose of softening the boundaries of reality, allowing us an experience of a world beyond the veil, a realm of spirit or magic or God, what have you.

Three years ago, I didn’t make it up to the very top of Mount Inari, turning back to make an appointment in the city proper. This time I was determined to make it to the highest point on the mountain. The odd thing was that I almost didn’t realize that I made it. I stopped to look at the trail map, only to notice a small sign, only slightly bigger than a post card: “Top of the Mountain.” I looked around. I was, in fact, at the top, there wasn’t any more mountain to scale, just more torii gates going down.

The top was barely noteworthy, except for the funny feeling that I nearly missed it. And then, like that, I was simply back on track, on with the trail, more torii gates as I descended the mountain.

Of course, how fitting! What better example of it’s-not-about-the-destination-rather-about-the-journey.

The magic of Fushimi Inari isn’t getting anywhere, there’s no venerable God-like figure waiting up the top of the mountain waiting to give you a certificate of completion and a pat on the back. There’s an old man selling refreshments and snacks from his shop, and, of course, more shrines, more offerings. No one even attends to them, there are no priests of facilitators between you and your Highest. Nor does the path end at the top, the torii gates go on quite a bit, though they become quite sparse towards the bottom, where there are more open spaces between them, more forest, as if the mountain is gently loosening its grasp, helping one exit from its otherworldliness. And we see out beyond the red: trees, nature, the world. Eventually the torii gates peter out completely, without ceremony or fanfare, into shrines interspersed by houses, before you know it, you’re just in the local the community, a short distance from the entrance of the shrine compound.

I realize my own mistake, there is no end, only more journeying, but one that must now be continued in real time, in real life, in the flesh, bone and blood world that we live in.

In our own yoga practice with its clear beginning and end, the spiritual communion seems clear. But those who have been practicing long enough also know that the long arms of our sadhana is not content to stay bound on our rubber mat, that the juiciest bits of transformation happen in our lives, our work, our relationships.

These tools however exist for a purpose, they remind us that there’s more, that there’s more magic, more blessings, more world to love and experience.

Ashtanga is usually the force that moves me around to different places, I sometimes forget that I’ve shared inner dance as well in most places I’ve been to. And that this little known healing modality from the Philippines has made its own impression along the way. So I was happily surprised to be asked if I had any plans for it again here in Osaka. Why not, I figured, even on the fly, 2-3 folks would make for a good morning. 

I remember feeling uncertain when I first offered ID in Japan; the culture here can be reserved, I wasn’t sure if trance dance states would translate. 

Truth is it’s incredibly easy to facilitate the healing modality here, there isn’t much resistance, surrender comes naturally to many participants. 

I think it says a lot about the the heart and soul of the Japanese. Structure and form is important to this culture, we mistake this for left-brain pragmatism, which it also is. But if we look at the shrines, the old temple grounds, the intricate gardens, cuisine–all designed to touch essence. I think that’s what makes inner dance accessible here, there is a door, it is already open. 

Inner dance is a moving meditation, healing modality, way of personal inquiry–or none of these things. Sometimes, I think I don’t really know anything about it other than it works. There will be one more inner dance in November, if you’re in Osaka and are interested to join, message me at kaz.castillo@gmail.com. 

Over the last weekend, I was with friends who had moved into a lovely new apartment, and I got swept into a small project of turning an old wooden table into a bit of homemade art. A compass was purchased, along with a pencil and a selection of paints, the table was portioned into concentric circles, the first seven of which made up the seed, the rest that followed blossomed into what was to be the flower of life–though from my up-close perspective of the table, I couldn’t really see it. I saw the circles, and the folds between circles, I could see patterns, but not the thing itself. Even as I painted, I focused mostly on the surface of each petal that I chose. My vision was narrow, but it needed to be. The few times I tried to look at the entire table, it was disorienting. So, I stuck to the task. I carefully stayed within the lines drawn up in pencil, painting the color evenly in the allotted spaces. It wasn’t until later, when I looked at it from a distance with more of the petals painted that I could see what we were actually working on. I was genuinely surprised and impressed by our efforts. There I was, painting blue petals, spaces between circles, but really we were creating an entire flower.

It’s the beginning of week 2 of teaching in Cairo and at Nūn, here, we have a few beginners, as well as some practitioners who are reviving their practice. These days, I realize, are about painting petals. 

I have asked students to breathe and move with the same sort of methodical brushstrokes, to simply focus and stay within the lines. When they are done, I ask them to do it again, committing it to memory.

Perhaps this is true with our practice in general. When we start learning ashtanga, we have a suspicion that there is a great framework, or perhaps we were told of this alleged intelligent design that connects everything, but we don’t really “know” it, not in a way that we understand it, or can even know what it looks like, not when we’re learning to breathe and not pass out through sun salutations. 

We enter a room and it’s obvious that there’s some sort of pattern that repeats itself, but we don’t really see it as it is, mistaking it too often as its form, asana like acrobatics. It’s probably best that we don’t see the big picture, which is always potentially growing as long as we practice. It’s overwhelming, too much information. Seeing too much, also, we get caught in wanting to look ahead–and then we steal from ourselves the opportunity to participate in the great unfolding. So we learn the practice piece by piece, bit by bit.

This is a great way of learning. Each posture, or even element of a posture, is a digestible module to be learned and digested before moving on to another unit of learning. Still, nothing is ever lost because everything is reviewed and repeated. The body is maintained, the mind is continuously purified. The mind and muscle memory are sharpened together. Before we ourselves know it, we have a pretty full bodied practice. A complex system of breath, attention, movement and postures that all work in harmony with each other. So many seeds grown into a garden.

Whether one is a beginner or a long time practitioner, the planting of seeds, the painting of petals, the growing, the tending of garden never ceases. For me, this is what keeps Ashtanga interesting. I am constantly growing, constantly finding myself surprised to see the ever evolving “big picture.” The practice keeps my focused on the details, invites me into the nitty grittiness of it, gives me work to do in tidy digestible bits that are just the right size for me. It keeps me engaged in that work, just enough, that I don’t get distracted by the usual stuff and, also, don’t get hung up on the big picture itself. 

This is one of the great gifts of this method–also, one of its challenges for practitioners, and, yes, but for teachers too. I am constantly having to check my desire to share, which may be born out of the best of intentions, but may also be feeding off some need to indulge my own ego (that to be a good teacher, I should perform, deliver, yadahyadah…), against the integrity of the practice. 

I may leave my friend to finish painting her table, but I take with me the reminders it has given me in relation to practice: the magic of economy (how less is really more), that seeds grow when properly grounded and showered with patience, attention and love, that everything comes in due time, usually with incredible and surprising results.

Am excited and grateful to be currently sharing at Nūn Center here in Zamalek, Cairo. I will be here for two months, teaching a Sunday-Thursday Mysore, 7:30-10am. For more information: http://www.nuncenter.com. 

Inner Dance is an experience. I always have a hard time explaining this energy work because it wants to be felt more than observed. It wants to be danced with. Sometimes it’s a slow dance, some times it’s a mosh pit. It might not look like any kind of dance at all. It kind of depends on you, where you’re at, what you’re deep internal music/musings might be at that given moment. And though we are in a room together, it’s kind of like dancing with yourself with, the door is closed, the volume is on high, and you feel free and light enough to go for it. To dance like no one is watching.

Thursday, April 21, 6:30pm, I will be offering Inner Dance sessions in The Shala in Maadi. Excited to return to this space, which has hosted so many ID sessions, and, with it, many personal movements. Thursday Inner Dance will be a weekly offering until early June. (Thursday, 28 April, there will be no class for Easter holidays).