Winter 2014 — A Teacher’s Practice

Posted on Mar 10, 2014

My students have been coming into Yoga class pale and exhausted. This long East Coast winter has been brutal.

I suggest they lie down, find their breath, their heartbeat.  We start with a restorative pose that opens their shoulders.  I encourage them to exhale. After some time in stillness, allowing the mind to take the shape of the body, I try to keep them busy and challenged, encouraging their attention to stay where it is needed as we explore the poses. Vinyasa yoga is good that way; you breathe in and do one thing, breathe out and do another. And then suddenly (on a good day): there you are, anchored in the manageable present.

Because, truthfully, I know it is much more than the cold weather that has coaxed their shoulders toward their ears. It is the barrage of stimulation that is New York City street life; also, the subways, the cell phones, desks and computers. It is all the modern stresses of jobs and families, a still broken healthcare system and the daily news. In a way though, these challenges unite us, they are part of the fabric of our sangha, and I know what I am working with.

But I will never know all of their stories. While many of these students have been coming to class for months, or even years, some of them still don’t say much. They unroll their mats in a favorite spot in the room. Some days they seem happier and some days more withdrawn, but they don’t ask me about their bodies or tell me about their lives. I imagine that Yoga is their quiet time, a stretch of minutes during which they don’t have to answer questions or emails, or be present for anyone other than themselves. I let them be.

Other students say a lot! Perhaps there are events going on in their bodies or their lives that are just too big NOT to share. For many, it is probably just their nature; they are friendly or gregarious. Their stories range from wild dates to achy hamstrings, new diets to grandchildren.

Last month though seemed particularly tough; there was illness, pets died, a pregnancy was lost. I admired these students, their courage and open natures, how they stuck to their practice. But it made me think about the quiet students too, and how we never really know what the person on the next mat is going through. Yet there we are by choice together, side by side, in not too many clothes, moving and breathing and sweating.

As a teacher, on some days it can feel like a lot to hold. Occasionally I get carried away by everything that I had hoped to teach, and it is not until class draws toward a close and the students are silently holding seated poses, that I remember again about the particular difficulties of one student or the drawn face of another. Had I given them the right kind of class? Had I offered them the touch that they needed, or the words from the teachings that might make a difference? I am never sure.

So years ago I settled on a kind of insurance plan. The Buddha might call it an antidote.  In pretty much every class I teach, once the students are settled in Savasana (final resting pose), and don’t need any more instructions or eye pillows fetched, I sit and do a Metta practice (a meditation based on the strong wish for the welfare and happiness of others).  Sometimes it is just for a minute or two, sometimes longer. It is of course for myself as a teacher so that I accept that I cant offer each of them a perfect class; a practice that is just right for their bum knee or their broken heart. But it is also a reminder that I am ultimately there to offer my attention, and by resting my attention on the goodness of Metta, perhaps it will infuse the room and hold each of them with kindness as they get up and continue their lives.



  1. Such heartfelt beauty. I feel a book coming. Thank you so much for these writings , captain. Xo Ann

    Sent from my iPhone


    • Oh Ann– you are the sweetest. Thank you for reading!!

  2. beautiful teaching on teaching

    • Beautiful compliment from a beautiful teacher. Thank you Jennifer.

  3. This is such a lovely, compassionate piece — honest about your inner workings and the mystery of creating an experience for a diverse group of souls. Thank you .

  4. Love these detailed observations of yourself and your students, and how your compassion infuses your teaching. Thank you.

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