Alhamdoolilah!

This morning  I managed to stumble into the yoga studio for an impressive third day of Mysore. I don't know why it is called that, but if you are wondering, yes, it involves a lot of soreness. Three days without giving up! Although one of those days was passive pigeon, so I don't know if that counts.

It's OK, guys. I will sit this one out. 

Anyway I went in to pay for class at 6 AM and the dude, John, who co-owns the studio was there being all meatless and bright eyed. I don't know why I assumed that John was some kind of hippie asshole, because I never saw him be one and he's not at all. I guess because he runs a yoga studio. He asked me how class was going, and I said that it was pretty embarrassing but otherwise OK. He got this big, sincere smile and looked at me and said "thank god for suffering, right?" And I said "yeah!" and I meant it.

An old friend recently accused me of "worshiping suffering," and maybe I kind of do, but it's only one god in my pantheon. It's so necessary- forcing me to learn things, keeping me honest, indicating what's wrong, bringing friends closer.

When John said that I thought of this word in Arabic that Abdulsalam taught me, which is pronounced like: Alhamdoo-lilah, that I am kind of in love with. It basically means "thank you god!" and you say it for suffering.

I kept forgetting how to say it so 'Salam
wrote it on a post it on my computer

In Saudi Arabia, when a terrible thing happens to you, you say "Alhamdoolilah!" which means something like "thank you god for this opportunity for growth and knowledge!" It is a reflex that you cultivate. (I guess that is easier in a culture where one isn't to say "shit! fuck! balls!")

 I love the idea of the reaction to suffering, especially when I think of it as a reflex, because it's a discipline. I can't imagine that when people in Saudi Arabia find out that a loved one is in a car accident they are honestly thinking "thank you god!" But they are saying it. Maybe after saying it over and over again it gets internalized. Or cultural or both. That's the thing about practice.

Today on the bus home, this teenage girl was driving me nuts by shouting into her cell phone. Her mother was yelling at her for something and she was denying culpability. Super annoying. So when this kind of thing happens, I try to do a loving-kindness meditation, where you sit there focusing your attention on the person thinking "let her be safe, let her be peaceful, let her be happy" over and over again. I enjoy doing this. It gives me a weird feeling of responsibility for the person.

So today I was thinking loving-kindness meditation at the girl on her phone, and my mind monkeyed over and asked me if I really thought this was doing her any good. I mean, it probably isn't. Maybe I'm somehow willing the universe in some inconceivable way to bring her safety peace and happiness. I'd like to think that. But probably not. It does work in the aggregate, though, as I cultivate the habit of responding to people who annoy me by focusing all of my attention on wishing them those things. Over time, maybe my natural, habitual response to annoyance or anger will be a desire for the person who is annoying me to have peace. That would probably have a positive outcome after a while. At least for me.

It's the same thing with prayer, which is now weirdly in my life. I guess prayer was always around- Help! Thanks! Wow! as Anne Lamott says. The things you can't help saying in the course of human experience and which seem to imply a listener. (It's the best evidence for the existence of god I can come up with. A semantic one. I'm definitely feeling thanks. I must be thanking something.) But now that I'm around Christians, they ask me to pray for them, and I do. I am dead certain that god is not sitting somewhere taking down my instructions, but I cannot deny that it feels GREAT to pray for people and to have people pray for you. Especially when there is just nothing you can do for the person. Prayer feels like something. At church, everyone writes their prayers on an index card and throws them in a basket. Then a team of volunteers prays them over the week. Being on that volunteer squad feels fantastic. I'm not sure why.

This pose actually kicks my ass. 

This is practice. Empathy practice, patience practice. Alhamdoolilah is a kind of equanimity practice. Yoga is all kinds of practice. Although I've been doing
yoga for years, I'm not any good at any yoga poses. I mean, if being good at them means being able to execute or hold them. Seriously, even the one where you just put your arms in the air is kind of a challenge. But for years, for me, yoga was not-punishing-myself practice, letting shit go practice accepting something less than perfection practice, and the change was meaningful and substantial. Going to yoga, even just going to yoga and laying on the floor for an hour, taught me the value of rest, and taking care of myself and lack of strain.

Mysore is different. This is requiring me to stretch, really. The dumbass feeling I feel when the Mysore teacher has to explain three times what to do, and then I do it pathetically reminds me of what it's like for my students every day. The way my own toes continue to elude me are a great chance to practice humility. And now I'm beginning to feel just the very beginnings of practicing strength. Practicing breathing through pain. Practicing staying with discomfort. Practicing knowing where to push a limit and where to respect it. I mean the very, very awkward humiliating maybe-I-should-just-sleep-in-today beginnings.

The first springtime flowers are starting to poke out of the rough in people's front yards, and they look just like the blades of switchblades. They are seriously tough. They poked out on Saturday, and on Monday it snowed, and now they are sitting in the ground all snowed-on and immobilized because growing is slow and you can't reverse it. How do they do it? It must be pure miserable. Alhamdoolilah for them, and thank god for suffering for real.