Of course, it’s challenging to always know what to say or do in the face of someone else’s suffering, partly because we don’t have much experience with it, but also because “saying” or “doing” isn’t always what’s prescribed. How can we simply share with one another, hear each other’s stories and unique experiences, and normalize them without minimizing them? How can we let go of the egocentric, fear –induced posturing of our own smugness of health in favor of real compassion? Real “suffering with?”

I kept walking. I turned another curve in the spiral and finally took a moment to glance up at the sky. There it was. Whatever else was happening, the sky was there, inky and inviting. I kept walking. But then suddenly, the experience washed over me a second time. I can’t tell where I am. I can’t tell where the buildings are, or where the river is or which way is north. How will I even know if I have made it all the way around? Moments after that, my eyes fixated on the stones of the spiral I was completing, and I knew I was back where I had started. I stepped out of the labyrinth, looked up at the sky and began to sing – just like I had done almost a hundred times before. But I knew something exceptional had happened.

We know that pain is an inevitable fact of life. But the truth is that we can differentiate pain from suffering. Certain events of our lives—a miscarriage, a lost job, a heartbreak, a sleepless night—are indisputably painful. And yet we can learn to bear these challenges with grace when we are offered opportunities to just be with them—not to try to change them, not to push them away, not to fear them, but to simply accept them as a natural part of the ebb and flow of life itself. Just as joy comes and goes, so does despair. This is a lesson that we can practice again and again, until we find that our natural reaction to pain is witnessing it, accepting it, and creating a spacious container to soften its hard edges. This takes practice and determination, but it is indeed entirely possible.

In the discussion of what a “good” or “beautiful” body is, we might notice that this is in fact an abstraction made real. What proof do we have? For starters, we can see that a standard of beauty is completely tied to specific cultures and time periods at a minimum. We know that there are other countries and cultures that value very different ideals of beauty than we. For example, the super skinny body that we fetishize in contemporary American culture is very different from what was idealized in the eighteen hundreds, or what might be considered beautiful halfway around the world. In fact, as I was mulling this whole idea over, I recalled a time when I was out at dinner with two friends and colleagues, one of whom was part of the queer community, and another who was a longtime member of an intentional community for caregivers. I remember ordering food with them and being refreshingly surprised that they just ordered their food, instead of agonizing over what and how much to eat, and then talking about it and making apologies for their choices or plans on how they would make up for their dietary transgressions. They laughed when I expressed to them my delight in their ease of ordering and eating. I realized that I was the only one of the three of us who was so accustomed to those kinds of conversations. I realized further, that it seemed like communities who were already marginalized seemed less affected by the ideal. It occurred to me that perhaps because I was the “closest” to the ideal, I was under the most tyranny. The others, although not unaffected by the prevailing narrative, were less subjugated to it. It reminds me again of the duendes. The littlest kids were most scared of the imagined elves, perhaps because they were most like them.

I don’t think of Maharaji, or Ram Dass, as being the ends of my devotion. They, like Christ or Buddha, are portals to an understanding of God in my life, but ones that speak to me in a direct and deeply personal way. And in a way, like my days as a Deadhead, I don’t actually have to do anything to be a part of the lineage to benefit from it. There is no prescribed technique to follow, no single person to worship, no set of rules or dogma, just a loosely organized community based on the guru and his lineage. And this community finds its structure in chanting the Hanuman Chalisa, by keeping alive stories of the guru and his message, by acting from the message itself.

But then, with Ram Dass, feeling so deeply loved and valued in my own process, I get to be in a completely different and profoundly humble role. I get to do even more of the deep inside looking that I already demand of myself and ignite in my students, but it’s different with him. With my beloved Ram Dass, I feel like a little kid. There is no pressure, only opportunity.

If you really want to practice yoga, then practice viveka, discernment Practice svadhyaya, self-study. Practice chittavritti nirodaha, managing your thoughts. Practice tapas, abyasa, dharana, working hard and with laser like focus to see the difference between the real and the unreal. Practice vichara, reasoning. Practice vitarka, reflecting. Practice shruti, listening. Practice smirti, remembering. Practice svadhyaya, humility. Practice pratyahara, being very quiet, or even mauna, silence.If you practice this yoga, the yoga of the scriptures, not the yoga of handstands or tight abs, or even the yoga of deep relaxation, you will undoubtedly come to a new awareness. I hope it’s one that understands what is happening now and how you can contribute. And that sees, as I have through my process, that POC safe spaces are needed and should be welcomed and supported. And that as white studio owners and teachers, we too should be offering and asking for these spaces. We are all in this together.

The Samarya Center has reached its full potential and maturity as it exists right now. It is time for this season to end and for us to open ourselves up to what's next.