The Student

Before

There is this neighbor, a lady who keeps house for my master, who asked if I could teach her yoga.

I am reluctant about teaching. Aside from feeling uncertified, teaching would take me away from my own practice; because I would have to dumb down the asanas to accommodate a student's capacity.

So we had that first class and, with my reluctance and her over-enthusiasm, it was bound for disaster. I pushed her far, she pushed herself further. And for a week after that, she steered away from my yoga area because the mere sight of a yoga mat made her cringe with phantom pain, poor woman.

Process

I told Sue about this, and she graciously offered me a yoga plan that was easy for my student to follow, and worse for me, because it was absofuckinglutely dumb for my level.

You know the argument that artists have about copyright? That if someone stole your work, you lose parts of your self in that art. That it no longer becomes yours. And you can no longer take profit out of that art. My reservations about teaching was more or less like that.

"Why should I teach if I it isn't going to give me more benefits as a yogi?" I wanted yoga to be mine. I do not care how others do it, I just want my yoga to be perfect. And I am jealous for the time and energy I have to offer the Gods of Yoga, so much that I would consider students as dead-weight to my practice.

But when I thought about it some more, I figured, who owns yoga and art? Are we not vessels and messengers for the generous fairies who inspired our bodies and minds with grace and agility and ideas? Aren't I accounted for the generosity that all my teachers have offered? Aren't I supposed to do their teachings some justice by passing it on?

After

This time I offered myself to her, my poor scared student. I swore that if she would let me teach her one more time -  with this fool proof easy plan that Sue gave me - she would enjoy the benefits of yoga.

Let's fast-forward a few weeks. My student came every morning since we tried Sue's program. Even when I did not feel like practicing. She is more aware of her body, she knows where her 80% is, so that she won't injure herself at 100%. She sleeps better. And her husband's happier.

In fact, it is me who reaps benefits from teaching. Just the sight of her in yoga costume shames me off my laziness onto the mat. My teaching-voice is more confident. And when we are in vinyasa, that flowing focus which allows no exchange of words, I know that I have her to thank. Teaching her did not just improve my asanas, it has made me a better yogi.

Did you ever hear that no money becomes less with charity ما نقص مال من صدقة? All the other yoga teachers seem to agree with that; that teaching is a gift to ourselves.

The Yoga Teachers

1.

My first yoga teacher was a thin book from Jareer. It had all the pictures, though it was not very motivating to keep flipping pages between asanas. I practiced for 2-3 weeks and then, khalas, the loneliness of doing something as unnatural as taking orders from a book bit me and I dropped it.

2.

Four years ago, I had Sue as my housemate. She was an avid yoga practitioner and teacher. She still is. And the next book, Light on Yoga, was her gift to my practice.

Nevertheless, when she left Indonesia, and I moved into the Timekeeper's house, the loneliness got on me again. The timekeeper's silence added to the not-doing-anything-else depressed me. After a year of struggling, I couldn't stand the silence and dropped yoga. I figured, I was doing fine without the added sadness, so why tip the fragile balance?

3.

Last year's long process of renewing my Saudi passport and Indonesian residence permit brought one of the most awful kinds of silence. The kind found in overcrowded waiting lounges; where you and everybody there are waiting for The News to arrive.

That is when I just had to invoke the deep silence in yoga. And maybe the Gods of Yoga felt pity for me that they gave me the chance to attend David Swenson's workshop and introduced vinyasa: practice flow.

While vipassana meditation brought the silence by halting everything, vinyasa brings the silence by moving. Like the silence you hear when you're sprinting: you can't think in words, and the only thing you can do is concentrate on your breath and the steps ahead of you. That is vinyasa's version of silence.

4.

Living in the Timekeeper's house while having everything provided for, is another kind of loneliness. It is occasionally rippled with meals or trips out of town, but generally the silence is constant. I thought that taking a meditation course and practicing vipassana could fix my issues with noise/silence.

You know how that went. I loved the silence. There are things that only the silence can teach, if you can understand its language and not run from its dark and intimidating depth. Or die.

Sometimes I see that the Timekeeper as the embodiment of silent practice. His life is semi-automatically sequenced, from vipassana to vinyasa to vipassana again. It does not bother him, whether in vipassana state or vinyasa. He does not question his practice, job or God because he just accepts and does what is expected of him.

How does someone grow that kind of courage and faith in his practice? Genetics?

5.

I once asked the Timekeeper if I need to find a steady yoga teacher, a security net against de-motivating loneliness. He said that vigilant practice is the best teacher.

Another yoga teacher suggested a sparring partner. Someone to make the practice feel less monotonous. Kind of like group worship in mosques and churches. It does not deepen the quality of our practice, but peer pressure can get us going.

The last yoga teacher I sat with over coffee said that teachers can only offer glimpses of their own practice. The rest if up to the student whether they want to learn and apply their lessons or not.

I wonder if the Prophet Muhammad knew this last bit when he said, "اليوم أكملت لكم دينكم I have done my job at teaching your religion…now it's up to you."

6.
Update 2012: I got certified in as a Hatha Yoga Teacher. It didn’t just help me feel more confident in teaching with minimal intrusion to a student’s practice, it actually made me a better masseuse from knowing how the human body works.

No shortcuts

It worried me when the Timekeeper told me to take care of Kim.

When I asked what was the matter with him, Kim (whose name meant GOLD and was the richest man in the regency) only shrugged, mumbled, then finally croaked: "I'm losing my memories…The doctors said I'm fine…I was hoping for a miracle cure…"

Ah. That is why his case was delegated to the lollygagging house bunny. I was supposed to have the patience to put up with this.

"Your memories aren't missing, sir, you just got too much noise in here." (Tap-tap on my temple.) "You need to make space for them to settle, sir."

I picked up a flyer, waved it in front of him, "You're Buddhist, right? So you have more right to this than I do. The meditation course is offered to everyone for free every month. It froze my voice for a year, so I'm pretty sure it will work better than miracles in clearing the voices in your head."

-------

Few weeks later, while hanging out with fellow meditators, I asked them, "Why wouldn't he take my suggestion? Why do the rich always go for the "ridiculous & trendy" rather than the "tried & true but lame"?

And they said, "He isn't called for it yet. He hasn't gathered enough karma."

I rolled my eyes. "So he's supposed to suffer? This thing has been around for centuries! It won't cost him penny or penicillin to sit through meditation and have his wires fixed!"

"It's because happiness/health/freedom is not for free. There are no shortcuts. Kaffarah, redemption and karma are costs that we must pay for rewards, heaven or nirvana."

The thought pissed me off (and later relieved me from so much guilt) for two reasons:

1. The best suggestions in the world will be the first ones flushed. It is not a personal thing. No matter how smart your ideas are, people need to be broken to bones before they can follow simple orders.
2. You cannot give your happiness to others. إنك لا تهدي من أحببت You can show it. You can stir curiosity. You can teach the method and direct the path. But you cannot walk the path for anyone.

So there.

People of the Abyss

"People of the Abyss" is a firsthand account on Jack London's experiences in the poorest areas of London.

I loved how this book cheered me up. If there is anything that could remove our personal misery, it is the misery of others, and there is plenty of that in Abyss.

The book was written around the 19th century, which means there are no references to 911 or the World Wars, or twitter. And who cares? People in the Abyss do not mind those things eternally. They barely can figure out what to feed their seven children to bother about God, King and Government. 

Jack London never went overboard with melodrama. He bitterly dissects the details, as if it is natural for Abysses to exist, in his time, in any time. But it is just the way the world works, you know? Simple as that. Anyone could have been in that situation. Since nothing in life is guaranteed, any one could have their games played through and there is no chance of getting out and there is no hope for betterment and it is nobody's fault, really. It is just the way things are and will always remain in the Abyss, till Kingdom comes.

Then, maybe as consolation, just so that our thoughts don't freeze from despair, London touches upon small acts of kindness that keeps the Abyss from collapsing. A man carefully twists his mate's loose hair off her face and places it carefully behind her ear. He's proud of her; he wants her to feel and look beautiful, even though they were standing in queue for shelter and food.

Now, for that kind of attention from our mates, how many meals are we willing to miss?

Maybe

"Are you blind?"

She was my friend since middle-school. And she was complimenting my hand-me-down clothes and bald head. I thought that she was mocking because she was the "fresh from the catwalk" pretty one. The one with actualized feminine powers: Married to a faithful man, two children, a steady job, and an amazing sense of fashion.

Once I believed that she was serious, something sad tugged on our conversation.

She said, "You are hot with possibilities."

Possibilities to start something else. To go to places. To marry. To conceive. The sexiness of perceived freedom is invincible.

After a pause, she added almost carefully, "So you should enjoy it while it lasts."

Because once you're settled, she said, things are only going to turn from bad to worse. You get used to the same man, the same routines, the same rhythms. It is the untold price of security.

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Suppose a woman is most beautiful when she is fresh. Around her late teens? When her body is just ripe and her mind still delusional enough to believe in romance. Suppose that part of the Universal joke is that even the most pristine youth and sweetest joy, does not last, and that pristine beauty will turn out rotten eventually.

Doesn't it also mean that boredom and tiredness do not last?

Possibilities are fictional, they are in abundance depending on how much imagination is exercised. Like a recurring character in our daily soaps, usually played by Mr. What If. Except that maybe the older we are, the more we hope for less disasters than pleasant surprises. Hope we don't get too sick, we don't run out of money, and is there time for coffee before imsak?

I see that she is one of the most beautiful people in my world because she answers my own what-if questions. Then again, suppose that looking at our lives as a "series actualized possibilities done perfectly right" is all that it takes to hold beauty, might not we give it another look?

Fiction

I'm tired of trying to sound smart. I want blogging to be more than just a report to what I know. Sometimes, I just want to bullshit and tell stories, just want to hold one feeling, one moment, one man, and show you how that presence changed my life.

There are universal feelings that both intellectuals and simpletons experience. There are common things that keep us motivated and rolling out of bed every morning. I want explore these common things because these are the stuff that gave my education its penny's worth. I feel that fiction is the only way I can explore that kind of truths without stating facts, you know? 

If I learned to write stories well enough, I might be able to show more without losing contextual frame or becoming glaringly sunny. I long to tell the stories that made my life more understandable without turning didactic or (if I can help it) snobby.

Remember that meditation retreat that froze my thoughts? Fourteen months and a few more sects later, and I still can't delete this blog. I still can't quit publishing and satisfying the need to self-exhibit.

Between not wanting to say anything and blog-existential-anxieties, one of these has to give: Either lose Hning's blogging style or lose the core, the god within and her urgent writing-voice.

I don't know what matters anymore. I just need to keep writing.

Counterbalance

I wish I never had to part with the Timekeeper.

I wish I could take him with me everywhere; when Ade got married, when Anggi's turn come, when I'm rocking it with folks my age.

I wish I were as indulgent with my parents as much as I am with him. I feel like all the love and pleasure to serve (the kind that I cannot offer my parents), pour forth with reckless abandon for him.

I understand that things happen and that the time we have with each other is predestined. Sorry. I meant that; Life is predestined. "This many hours ye shall be with so and so. This many hours ye shall be alone."

And for only this many hours left ye shall have in the Timekeeper's company.

It rings in my ears, like an automatic stop to excess. I cannot linger under my shell anymore; because tea-time is up and this is "one less cup from my stock of tea-times with him. So I have to make every sip count."

You know? I'm writing this at the mall. Four-hundred kilometers from the Timekeeper and waiting for Souma to arrive. My darling Souma, how I love her. And from loving her I check myself: Do not love too much, said Jesus and Sayyidina Muhammad and Buddha. Even if it is the Timekeeper. For, even he is but mortal.

The thought of a mortal's predestined life comforts me, actually. Although life is brief, and our meetings are short, and every cup is just a sip, love reaches far and beyond for as long as kindness is passed on.

It was the Timekeeper, my master and spiritual father, who taught me the dignity to accept kindness and bear its counterbalance. As long as I remember and practice that lesson, he will be with me.