I first learned of Swami Satchidananda when I was 16 and saw his striking photograph on the front page of the Village Voice. The caption read something like, “Flower children meet Swami Satchidananda at JFK Airport as he returns to New York, after completing the world tour that first brought him to the United States.” The address where he taught classes, the Integral Yoga Institute at 500 West End Avenue in New York, was one I’d heard about during the big 1967 Peace March up Fifth Avenue in protest of the Vietnam War, when I had fallen in step with people who were chanting “Hare Krishna” and who had taken those classes.

Within months of my first Hatha class, I started doing Karma Yoga and serving as the afternoon receptionist. I’d help people sign in for the classes and collect their $1 donations. As I listened through the green curtain for each class to go into deep relaxation and meditation, it was my job to get everyone waiting for the next class to talk in a hushed whisper. The elevator man released crowds of newcomers to the fifth floor apartment, zoned residential-commercial on New York’s Upper West Side. A poster with the same picture I’d seen in the newspaper announced, “The Science of Yoga is over 4000 years old, but it may be new to you. It is not a religion, yet it encompasses all religions. At 500 West End Avenue, the door is open to meet Swami Satchidananda. And when you leave, you may find that another door is open.”

Swamiji, as everyone then called him, lived in the back two rooms of the large, five-bedroom apartment. His bedroom overlooked West End Avenue, and his office overlooked West 84^th Street. They were linked by a bathroom and a long interior hallway, off of that was the walk-in closet which was his meditation room. The classes were taught by some of the senior students (Hari, Bhaskar, Rama, Sita, Siva, Shankar, Shree, and Vijay) in the combined living room-dining room area, with the six-foot, colorized photo of Swami Sivananda overseeing everything. The rooms were empty except for carpeting, a few wall photos and a candle on the mantle of the non-functional fireplace.

Hari and his wife, Hamsa, a top fashion model, lived in the master bedroom at the other end of the hall. Parameshwari lived in one of the two little rooms originally meant for servants; the other one was used as the women’s dressing room. Men changed behind a curtain in a narrow hallway between the dining room-meditation area and the foyer. Students crowded into the little sitting area, where we proudly displayed a few books about Yoga (which were rare in those days) and booklets that were for sale outside the kitchen door.

In the afternoon, when I arrived from school, I’d be told if Swamiji was still resting, as he did after lunch. I’d wait for his buzzer to come over the telephone and announce that he was open to receiving calls and visitors. I learned how to cook fresh vegetables in the large eat-in kitchen, which later would become the main entrance for the IYI. The traffic in and out of Apartment 5B had become so great the building management asked us to have students use the service elevator in the back of the building.

The first time I saw Sri Gurudev, I was taking a class, and he walked through the room to get to his residence. Long hair and beard were unseen on anyone over age 30 in those days, so I thought he wandered in by mistake. The next time was when I felt someone correct my leg position in the relaxation pose and I opened my eyes to see that it was the same man. He had paused to oversee the class that was being taught by his young student, Hari. I realized at that moment that this man in an orange caftan was actually someone of high status and wisdom from whom I could learn. Everyone around Swamiji knew that he was special and different, but most of us weren’t quite sure with whom we were dealing. We were constantly impressed by his apparent equanimity and detachment and by his uncanny ability to repair things like broken toasters. Slowly we caught on that, out of respect, we should hold doors open for him and carry his packages.

At 500 West End, Swami Satchidananda taught the Intermediate Hatha class until 1968, and I was fortunate to have taken a half dozen of those classes with him. He taught Bhagavad Gita class on Saturday mornings. At first, his public lectures were given in the living room, seated under a photo of his Guru, Sri Swami Sivananda, between the two windows, with their long orange curtains that overlooked West End Avenue. His seat was a blanket and towel placed on top of a Swedish-modern coffee table that did double duty as his office desk. When we could no longer fit everyone into the space, lectures moved to the basement of the Universalist Church and, later, to its main sanctuary.

When the large apartment across the hall became vacant, a group of Yoga students decided to move in, commune style. There was one married couple, Shankar and Uma and their baby girl, Sasi, who would fall asleep on Sri Gurudev’s lap when he gave lectures. Devi had to herself what was meant to be the maid’s room. Two women—Shanti and Brahmi—lived in one bedroom, and three men—Bhaskar, Ravi, and Guru Prem—shared the living room. The dining room was turned into an extra classroom. The kitchen was always filled with people and usually it was a mess. Everyone was, as Sri Gurudev described us, “a little screw-loose,” but it was so much fun to be there. Something very special, very important was going on and we wanted to be part of it.

We gathered at dawn for morning meditation and Hatha Yoga. We had outrageous, jam-packed kirtans with guitars and drums. We celebrated  birthdays with parties for each astrological sign. Over three summers, Sri Gurudev was invited to run things at Ananda Ashram in Harriman, New York. We piled into cars and drove out for weekends at the lake house. If you were really lucky, you’d be invited to ride in the car with Swamiji…

Read the rest of this article in the Spring/Summer 2016 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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We have been leading Basic Integral Yoga Teacher Trainings for many years now and of course, one of the first practices that we share with the teacher trainees is Surya Namaskaram.

My (Kali) first experience of Surya Namaskaram was in the early 1970s in the Main Room at the New York Integral Yoga Institute. I put my white towel down on the carpeted floor beneath the picture of Sri Swami Satchidananda and there began my experience of the practice of Hatha Yoga. I remember in that first physical application of the process of “twelve positions flowing one into another,” feeling that this connection of movements was divine choreography. I was a dancer and had learned a lot of steps in choreographic sequence, but this sequence was different somehow. The way it was communicated to the students was unique. Coordination of breath and movement was specifically emphasized, but we were also encouraged to feel energy flow with the breath—the expression of that thing called prana (life force). I seemed to understand innately what it was about as the movement became much more mindful and sacred. In hindsight it certainly was a plus that my practice evolved that day beneath the picture of Sri Swami Satchidananda, whom I would soon identify as my teacher.

Unlike Kali, I (Rashmi) do not recall my first Surya Namaskaram experience. I started practicing Yoga in 1984, but it was about the asana rather than Surya Namaskaram. It wasn’t until 1992 that I started to take classes that incorporated Sun Salutations. What I do remember about practicing Sun Salutations was that they were more Ashtanga-based: jump-backs, chatarunga, and so on. I don’t even know how I got through them, but I do recall getting really sweaty and incredibly sore!

Not until I discovered Integral Yoga did I recognize the beauty and fluidity of the practice. The Integral Yoga Sun Salutation practice is beneficial no matter what challenges are experienced. I always come back to these beautiful positions, with modifications if necessary. There is a grace and purity in the simplicity of the practice, and there is really no other reason to practice the flow other than how Swami Satchidananda taught it: twelve positions that flow one into the next, serving as a general tonic for the body and a warm-up for the asana practice.

Now we both have the privilege of introducing the practice of Surya Namaskaram, year after year, to new students in open classes and in Teacher Trainings. Naturally, we both practice this beautiful sequence almost daily as part of our own personal sadhana. It’s important to remember that the practice is about prana. It’s also crucial to keep the practice simple, as Swami Satchidananda taught; too much movement may interrupt the flow of prana. We encourage our students to listen deeply to the body-mind on each day of practice; the movements then serve to attune our sensitivity to where we are on any given day (physically, emotionally, psychologically) and to adjust our ongoing practice gently in light of that valuable information. This approach comes from the way we have been taught to convey the teachings of Integral Yoga. The practice is about meditation—structurally and physiologically informed—but always aligning this information with absolute attention to breath—the energetic flow. We feel inspired to practice in this way; it is the path that leads us to the center of our being.

The elegant Integral Yoga sequence of asana that Swami Satchidananda taught his students is beyond words. Surya Namaskaram is the warm-up that points the arrow to the evolution of asana that Integral Yoga students have been practicing for 50 years.

For me (Kali), it has been about 45 years of practice and it’s as if I were practicing for the first time with every round. I complete my 70^th trip around the sun this year, and I have no doubt that, from my first Surya Namakaram to my last, I’ve been blessed with sacred teachings from a Master. He has guided me powerfully with the gift of inviolable interpretations of Raja Yoga, the Bhagavad Gita, including the six branches of Integral Yoga, and Ashtanga Yoga.

I (Rashmi) can only aspire to be where Kali is in her 70^th trip around the sun! In the meantime, I’m inspired by her because Kali carries Swami Satchidananda’s teachings so close to her heart and, through Gurudev, has guided me on this glorious pathway of peace, joy, love, and light!

Read the rest of this article in the Spring/Summer 2016 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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Integral Yoga Magazine (IYM): Please tell us about your relationship with Swami Satchidananda.

Dean Ornish (DO): Let me begin by saying that I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for Swami Satchidananda—because I was very close to committing suicide when we first met back in 1972. There’s an old saying that: “When the student is ready the teacher appears,” and that was certainly true for me. He really saved my life at a time when I was despondent. I was in medical school and had a spiritual vision that was more than I could handle, which was that nothing could bring lasting happiness. And this realization combined with the feeling that I was never going to amount to very much—and even if I did it wouldn’t matter anyway—was profoundly depressing. I had gotten a case of infectious mononucleosis that wiped me out. When my parents realized I wasn’t doing well, they brought me home to Dallas to recover. My plan was to get well enough to kill myself.

I was at home when Swami Satchidananda—central casting’s idea of a Swami, with saffron robes and a long white beard—walked in the door and he gave a satsang (spiritual discourse) in our living room. He started off by saying, “Nothing can bring you lasting happiness,” which felt very validating because that’s what I had figured out—even though everyone else was saying, “Oh, get married, get rich and famous, and you’ll be happy.” While he affirmed what I was realizing about lasting happiness, he was beaming and I was miserable! I wondered, What am I missing here?

He went on to say—and this is what really turned my life around—that nothing can bring you lasting happiness because you have it already, if you only don’t disturb that. He explained that, in the process of misidentifying where our peace and happiness come from, we end up running after so many things that we think are going to bring it to us. Doing that, we disturb the inner peace we already have—if we would just stop disturbing it.  It’s one of the great ironies of life.

Swamiji liked to make puns, and when people asked him if he was a Hindu, he’d say “No, I’m an Undo,” which I really love. The process of Yoga and meditation—and for that matter virtually all spiritual practice—is not about bringing us a sense of peace and well-being but, rather, to help us to identify and undo what disturbs our own innate peace and health and well-being. If we have to get our wellbeing from outside ourselves then everyone who has what we think we need has power over us. But if the question becomes, “What am I doing that is disturbing my own inner health and wellbeing?” That’s very empowering because that’s something I can do something about.

IYM: How did these teachings influence the way you pursued a career in medicine?

DO: Swami Satchidananda’s teachings form the basis of the Lifestyle Medicine Program I developed. Lifestyle Medicine is the most exciting trend in medicine today. A healthy lifestyle not only helps to prevent disease, but oftentimes can reverse it. I’ve been doing work in this area for almost 40 years. And we’ve been able to use these very high tech, state of the art, scientific measures to prove how powerful these very simple interventions can be.

We first showed that heart disease was reversible and later we showed that Type II diabetes could be reversed. When people are put on blood pressure medications, cholesterol lowering drugs, or diabetes medication, they ask the doctor, “How long do I have to take these?”, the doctor usually says, “forever.” When we began our research with heart disease, we were able to show for the first time that even severe heart disease could often be reversed when people made intensive changes in diet and lifestyle. That, I learned from Swami Satchidananda: whole foods, a plant based diet, moderate exercise, various Yoga practices, basically an Integral Yoga Hatha class—meditation and breathing techniques, and progressive relaxation, along with what we euphemistically call “social support,” which is really love and intimacy.  Eat well, move more, stress less, and love more. Sometimes people have a hard time believing this—that simple changes can have such powerful outcomes, but they often do.

One of the most important things that I learned from Swami Satchidananda was that he would always ask, “What’s the underlying cause?” revealing a causal chain of events that leads to a problem. If we can treat the underlying cause and not just literally or figuratively “bypass” the problem, our bodies often have the remarkable capacity to begin healing. Underlying causes are, to a large degree, the lifestyle choices that we make each day: what we eat, how we respond to stress, whether or not we smoke, how much exercise we get and, perhaps most important, how much love and support we have.

IYM: Fifty years ago, there was no such thing as Lifestyle Medicine. Now, it’s gaining wider acceptance?

Read the rest of this article in the Spring/Summer 2016 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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Since meeting Swami Satchidananda, the last 50 years have been the best years of my life. I’ve learned so much from Gurudev; even the way I met him was miraculous. It was 1966—a time of psychedelic experimentation among the youth and Yoga was virtually unknown in America. As an artist, I was on a creative retreat, experimenting with new modes of expression through the medium of collage. Before I became an artist, I had almost chosen a career as an astronomer, having had a strong fascination about the universe— planets, stars, galaxies, novas, nebulas, and the vast distances in space. One day I decided I was going to try and find out what the universe and life was all about through my art and decided to create a large collage of the universe in my studio in New York’s Upper West Side. I worked on a large table that was about five feet square and began assembling photographs. I worked on the collage for almost 16 hours a day for three days.

When it was complete, I wanted to be able to see the whole image, hoping it would give me a perspective on the universe and what life was all about. But it was so big that in order to see it, I had to climb up a ten-foot ladder and look down at it. There I was, at two in the morning, climbing a ladder up to the ceiling. When I looked down at my collage creation, however, I didn’t really see anything that was a cosmic revelation; I was hoping to see something that was beyond belief. I was very frustrated and disappointed, especially since I had worked very hard on it.

I reached my arms up to God and wanted to scream, but suddenly realized that my wife Liz and our baby son, Adam, were asleep in the next room. So, instead, I did a kind of dry, silent scream while I closed my eyes and wished for an answer to my quest. Suddenly, with my eyes closed, I envisioned a cloud that opened up and a man with a white beard appeared through it and said, “Relax, everything is okay.”

I felt a new sense of peace and began to relax as I descended the ladder. It was now three a.m. and as I was about to go to bed when my phone rang. Who could be calling me at that hour? I picked up the phone and a man said, “I’m so sorry. I’m calling from Paris and forgot the time difference. My name is Conrad Rooks.” He told me that he was making a film in Paris and somebody had shown him a brochure of my collages. He loved them and asked if I could come to Paris and give him some ideas for visuals and color treatments for his film.

“When do you need me there?” I asked. He said, “I’d like you to come tomorrow.” I said, “I’m sorry, I really can’t. My wife just had a baby.” So I said goodnight and went to bed. As I drifted off to sleep, all I could think about was the vision I had on the ladder of the man in the white beard. The next afternoon, someone knocked on my door. I opened it and a man who was wearing a Zorro hat and a black coat that hung down to his ankles was standing there. “Hello, I’m Conrad Rooks, the man who called you last night,” he said. “What are you doing here?” I exclaimed. “I thought you said you were in Paris!” “When you said you wouldn’t come, I decided to get on the next plane and here I am,” he declared. I invited him into the studio and when he saw my collages on the wall, he let out a loud “YAHOO,” throwing his hat up to the ceiling and letting it fall to the floor.

After he looked at my art and we talked a bit, he said, “I’d like you come down and meet my friends. They’re sitting on a bench across the street on Riverside Drive.” “Your friends? Who are your friends?” I asked. “I’ve got Alan Ginsberg and William Burroughs waiting downstairs to tell you about my film.” I couldn’t believe my ears! So we went downstairs, and there sure enough was Ginsberg and Burroughs. They both told me about the extraordinary underground film that Conrad was making, Chappaqua. They persuaded me that the film needed my creative input and that I should go to Paris. So I decided to go.

When we arrived in Paris, we went to the Hotel Napoleon Bonaparte. Conrad picked up the house phone and said, “Hello, Swami? I’ve got the American artist with me. Can you please meet us downstairs for breakfast?” I had heard the term “Swami” before, but thought it was a man who could do special, paranormal feats and didn’t know it was a monk or holy man. The elevator door opened up and a tall, dark, magnificent man walked out wearing orange clothes and a beautiful long beard. The moment I saw him, I knew that it was the man in my vision. As I shook his long, slender hand, I looked into his deep brown eyes, and was enchanted by their beauty and dynamic presence, which I realized was emanating from within…

Read the rest of this article in the Spring/Summer 2016 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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satyam brūyat_priyam brūyan_na brūyāt_satyam_apriyam
priyam cha nānṛitam brūyādéṣha dharmaḥ sanātanaḥ ~Manusmriti 4:138

The above verse is from an ancient Sanskrit scripture which says, “Say what is true, say what is sweet, but do not say what is true, but not sweet, nor say what is sweet but not true—so no harsh truths and no sweet lies.” Swami Satchidananda was the embodiment of this perennial wisdom. He walked this Earth as truth, consciousness, and bliss. For the many years that I had the good fortune of his blessed association, I experienced his ability to draw what was best out of a situation, as well as out of people. He spoke the sweet truth, conveying what was good and beautiful in the world and in people’s souls.

He may have had that keen ability of an accomplished master to see God everywhere, referred to in the yogic teachings as sarvatmabhav. In his presence fear, worry, self-consciousness, and complaints about other people appeared as they really were: small and petty. He taught us many invaluable lessons, for example: to always remain calm and cultivate a peaceful mind and a useful body; to not worry about what other people think of you instead—focus on what God thinks of you. If people gossip and spread unkind lies about you, respond to them as if it was a wrong number and simple hang up the phone. He demonstrated how the cure for disease is selflessness; to become well all one has to do is to simply drop the “I” and replace it with “we.” “I-llness to we-llness” was one of his many brilliant contributions to medical science. He said that the way to be happy is to bring happiness to others. He reminded us that God is the ultimate doer and so he advised us to do our best and let God do the rest.

David [Life] and I met Swami Satchidananda twenty-three years ago. We had been invited to present an asana dance performance at the 6^th Unity in Yoga Conference held during Memorial Day weekend, May 27-31, 1993, in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. The conference celebrated 100 years of Yoga in America. The lineup of esteemed presenters makes current Yoga conferences seem quite pale. On arrival I was star-stuck at the list of conference presenters, which included, internationally known Yoga masters: Sri Brahmananda Saraswati, (who was to become my own Guru-ji), Yogi Bhajan, Amrit Desai, Dr. Pratap, Lilias Folan, Kali Ray, Rama Jyoti Vernon (who founded Unity in Yoga, which became the Yoga Alliance and the luminous, elegant, incomparable, Swami Satchidananda—the celebrated “Woodstock Guru.” I was told at the time that he was almost 80 years old, which I could not believe—his complete physical composure and the twinkle in his eyes conveyed a timeless enlightened soul beneath the ochre robes of a swami.

Our asana dance performance was scheduled as part of the closing ceremony on the final day of the conference. I remember being backstage in the large auditorium and peeking through the curtains to see if anyone had showed up for the show, as we were told that most people would leave the conference early in order to beat the traffic. But there he was—Swami Satchidananda sitting front row center next to Yogi Bhajan! I excitedly ran back to the dressing room to tell the other members of our company. David, who was focused rehearsing his solo—which was to appear as the finale, freaked out. “What? I can’t go out there and perform dressed like this, in front of them!” Actually David was not so much worried about being dressed as being undressed. Our Yoga dance piece was titled “Shakti Rising” and it was an interpretation of the rising of kundalini or consciousness through the seven chakras.

David was dancing the crown or sahasrara chakra and he was very scantily clad in only a dance belt, which covered his front but left his buttocks exposed. His solo was done entirely while he was standing on his head with his back to the audience—which meant he would be literally baring his buttocks—albeit with a colorful snake painted on his body but non-the less bare buttocks—for all to see, including the most revered Swami Satchidananda. We all had to work very hard to convince David to go through with the performance, which he did, and he did a splendid job.

After the performance we were all backstage surrounded by people congratulating us. A woman approached us, who turned out to be Swami Satchidananda’s long time assistant, Premanjali, and she said, “Gurudev, Swami Satchidananda, would like to meet you.” David turned and promptly found the nearest exit. I ran after him only to find he had locked himself in the bathroom. When I knocked he emphatically declared, “I’m not going to stand there while he chastises me; I was crazy to go on stage in front of him—I’m too embarrassed.” After pleading with David to no avail, I turned to go back to the group…

Read the rest of this article in the Spring/Summer 2016 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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It is no accident that those who survive being broken and who make a home for the terrible knowledge are, in turn, at the threshold of enlightened living. Often, in our one-sided logic, we try to theorize that suffering is a prerequisite to deep living. In truth, inhabiting both sides of any paradox is what engenders deep living. In the case of the paradox of feeling, the pain of breaking and the wonder of compassion are polarities that, once accepted and allowed to mix, yield a sense of Divine Reality in everything we encounter.

If you set out to suffer in order to find wonder, a tact that is inconceivable to anyone who has truly suffered, you will only experience pain. Breaking and wonder are by themselves unavoidable. It’s how we allow for them to reside within us that unlocks the sanctities.

Likewise, if you seek to avoid breaking in the guise of preserving peace, you will never inhabit your feelings and will only sever yourself from any chance of experiencing wholeness or unity. For, as you can’t see without eyes or hear without ears, you can’t be whole without feelings.

There are many who subscribe to an emotional solipsism; believing that if a life breaks in the world and I don’t hear it or see it, then the life and its breaking do not exist. This is simply denial of the grossest sort, no matter how well thought out or articulated. Ultimately, it doesn’t protect the denier; just further isolates that person in a blindness that becomes irreversible the longer one stays there.

Because we live, there’s no escaping breaking. Because we feel, there’s no escaping suffering. Yet if we can endure the pain of breaking, depths we didn’t imagine will be brought to light. If we can outlast the abrasions of eroding, we’ll wear our inner beauties as a skin. If we can persevere through the rip of shedding, we’ll live by new sensitivities. Yes, if we can accept the decomposition of old ways, we’ll be reborn in the same life, unsure of how we got this far.

From the beginning, the key to renewal has been shedding, the casting off of old skin. In essence, shedding symbolizes self-transformation, self-initiated by a covenant to grow. Those who refuse such renewal may yet be forced to undergo transformation anyway as a result of being broken or eroded by the world. Very often, both occur at the same time; that is, we shed from within and are eroded from without. Often, the pain of breaking induces a life to shed its stubbornness.

It’s interesting that the earliest peoples believed in something that we in our hive of manufacturing have forgotten—that immortality is attainable by shedding. The Dusuns of North Borneo have believed for centuries that when God finished creating the world He announced that: “Whoever is able to cast off his skin shall not die.”

But what does this mean? Not that we can live forever, but 
that the way to stay closest to the pulse of life, the way to stay
in the presence of that Divine Reality which informs everything is to be willing to change. Still, change what? To change whatever has ceased to function within us. To shed whatever we’re carrying that’s no longer alive. To cast off our dead skin. Why? Because dead skin can’t feel. Dead eyes can’t see. Dead ears can’t hear. And, as we’ve said, without feeling there’s no chance of wholeness, and wholeness remains our best chance to survive the pain of breaking.

Of course, for human beings, dead skin takes many forms, the most significant of which remain intangible but suffocating, such as a dead way of thinking, a dead way of seeing, a dead way of relating, a dead way of believing, or a dead way of experiencing.

Even so, we must be clear that shedding always has a pain of its own. There is no escaping the underside of feeling. I do not advocate pain, nor do I sacralize suffering. I simply acknowledge the reality of it all. As Buddha says: “All life is sorrowful.” But life is much more as well.

Indeed, all life is sorrowful, if we can’t move our center of living off the pain of that terrible knowledge. For pain and uncertainty alone, as real as they are, are parts of the Whole, and their counterpoints, wonder and peace, are parts as well. Together they move us toward an experience of unity that lubricates the harshness of our pain, while the pain itself can’t help but make the wonder and peace all the more precious. . .

Read the rest of this article in the Winter 2016 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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Turn on the radio or television and it becomes clear that those of us who live in North America are encouraged to be fearful. Advertisements, websites, articles, and relatives warn us to fear fat, illness, refugees, terrorists, identity theft, death, lack of money, failure to find a job, loss of social security—the list of what and who to fear is endless. Many of us desire to live and create a sense of community that is deeply rewarding and engaging, yet we may find that our individual aspirations are hijacked by personal and collective fears that lead to gossip, distrust, complaining, and politics. While it isn’t easy to create workplaces based on the yogic values of non-violence and purity, it is possible to put aside fear and develop communities based on love, respect, and service.

Dr. Vasant Lad, an Ayurvedic physician, states that fear is a vata disorder that emerges from constant movement, multi-tasking, chronic stress, and erratic hours. When individuals experience high vata it leads them to be restless and anxious. When a workplace experiences high vata the organization experiences a shift away from creativity and high engagement. As vata persists in the community, restlessness, worry, gossip, and complaining emerge to try and handle uncertainty and anxiety about the future. Unfortunately, these behaviors have the unintended consequence of lowering the quality and quantity of service we are able to provide. As service wans, the focus of the workplace shifts to self-preservation leading to more unhappiness and confusion.

Swami Satchidananda said, “Fear is not going to help us in any way. Fear makes the mind lose all its strength.” Understanding exactly how fear makes us lose our strength is the first step to ameliorating the high vata that binds us. When we experience fear it is natural to attempt to distance ourselves from it through our preferred distraction—videogames, shopping, gossip, drugs, overwork, and entertainment to name just a few. These activities drain us of the energy we could be using to serve others which—as yogis we know—is what ultimately leads to happiness. While it is a step in the right direction to replace these distractions with Yoga, if we do not deal with the fear underlying our distractions, we may notice our mind cultivating a subtle egoism regarding our spiritual practice. Egoism, like drugs and other distractions, creates a division between ourselves and our community.

Acknowledging our own struggle with fear cultivates the humility necessary to begin understanding the negative actions that we may see in our community. These actions are rooted in fear. The fear may be as simple as worrying that we can’t do the tasks we’re assigned, a fear of upcoming layoffs, or a fear that we aren’t valued within the organization. The challenging thing about fear is that it doesn’t abate just because we directly address the fear and bring it into the open. Attention given to fear, even if it to develop a stalwart plan to stave off the fear, often fortifies the reality of our anxieties. When we put our hand near the hot flames of a fire, our reflexes pull us away from the flames. Likewise, the pain of fear is a useful emotion as it clearly shows us we are thinking in the wrong direction and need to chart a new path.

High vata, thankfully, is ameliorated by creating a warm, nurturing environment in which experimentation and exploration to creatively solve problems is encouraged. A balanced work environment includes goals and clear structure (brought by pitta dosha) and the good, steady, reliable and compassionate service of others (brought by kapha dosha). We can develop the following qualities to bring down high vata and enhance creativity, and be of service to others:

Relationship is everything. Warm and nourishing relationships are central to every aspect of the positive functioning of a community. When vata is out of balance, its “light” quality incites fear, anxiety, loneliness, and insecurity. These qualities can be ameliorated by bringing grounded qualities of stability and connection into our daily relationships. Emphasizing how positive relationships impact the service the community provides to each other and to others is central to satisfaction. Everyone who comes into contact with the community should feel they are incredibly important. This focus on relationships creates a workplace to which people want to donate their time, be a part of, and promote because it feels good to participate. . .

Read the rest of this article in the Winter 2016 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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When he was three months old, my firstborn child was diagnosed with a rare, highly aggressive brain tumor. Two weeks and three surgeries later, he endured his first chemotherapy treatment. Three days later, a CT scan revealed that his brain was completely destroyed. Doctors called this, “total neurological devastation.” The likelihood of survival was minimal. My husband and I didn’t want our child to endure any more suffering. We chose to discontinue treatment of the tumor and bring him home to love him, take care of him, and make him as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. Six months after the day of diagnosis, our beautiful boy, Theo, died at home with his father and me, our arms enfolding him.

During those months and after, we endured grief upon grief. There were also beautiful moments spent with him, peaceful and sacred times. The pain and sadness are still with me. Along with all the rest of who I am, I will always be a bereaved mother. In the chaos of deep grief, all that we may have believed could sustain us can fall away like so much dust. I trained as an Integral Yoga teacher before I ever became a mother and I know that my training helped me move through my child’s diagnosis and illness with more equanimity than I would have had otherwise.

One of the only practices that remained with me, in my earliest, darkest days of grief was japa, the Yoga of mantra repetition. Gurudev taught that japa is the most powerful and direct of all yogic tools. One of my most beloved chants is the opening sloka of the Ishvara Upanishad. Some teachers say that if all verses from all sacred texts were lost, except that one, all others could be re-born and re-written from this one verse, known as the Purnamadah.

OM, purnamadah purnamidam purnaat purnamudachyate  purnasya purnaamadaya purnameva vashishyate. OM, Shanti, Shanti, Shanti.

This is whole and complete, that is whole and complete. This and that are whole and complete. From wholeness comes wholeness. When a portion of wholeness is removed, that which remains is whole. OM, Peace, Peace, Peace.

I chanted the Purnamadah to my pregnant belly. I sung it to my son after his birth, during his illness, and after he died. I knew the translation of the chant, but had never given it much thought. One night, about a month after his funeral, deep in grief, I was soaking in the tub, which I often did; hot tears mixing with hot water. I began to sing the Purnamadah. As I cried and sang, I could feel the sound vibrations, ancient and comforting, begin to take on a new significance. In an instant, a pause, a space between sound and breath, I understood it on several levels at once.

When my child was inside my body, he was part of the whole that was me, and when, through his birth, he was removed from me, he was, on his own, a whole and complete being. I also remained whole and complete. I was whole and he was whole, yet we were still connected through our shared DNA on a cellular level. The food I ate, the air I breathed, had become part of him. We were also connected on a soul level to each other, mother to child, person to person, soul to soul. Those connections could never be broken, he would and will, always be part of me.

After his death, this remains true. I no longer experience his physical form co-existing here with my own; true, but the connection remains. Even in death, he cannot be removed from me. When I understood, truly, that he was not separate from me, even in death, I also understood the concept on a universal level. I understood that as this was true of my child and me, and it was true of us all. We are all connected. We are all made of the same matter, from the same Source. We are connected to each other and to that Source from which we can never be removed. No matter where we go or what we do, we are always connected to that wholeness, and cannot be removed from it. Through that we are also connected to each other, to all of creation. The threads of connection are ever-present, in our daily lives, with those we know and love, and with those we will never even meet. All of us together on our shared planet, in our place in the universe, connecting eternally on physical, spiritual, and energetic levels. We are part of the same wholeness. . .

Read the rest of this article in the Winter 2016 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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Recently, we received a request from an Integral Yoga teacher to address yogic practices, traditions, and advice on preparing for death. Here are some tips, from our own expert in the field, that may be helpful in preparing for your or anyone’s journey—starting with some basic information and then moving on to how Yoga teachers can add their special gifts.

Approach Gently, Peacefully, Listen Deeply

Practicing peace first, last, and always—with self and others—is foremost. Most people enjoy sharing stories of their past, talking about their beliefs, and saying what is important to them at this time. By listening deeply we can ask real, relevant questions to assist in the transition. Most good listeners will enable the person to finally expose what is bothering him or her and the listener may be able to help facilitate closure. Listen, don’t talk much, share feelings of love, of a worthy life, and of leaving a legacy. These seem to be key areas of concern for everyone.

Yogic Practices: Skills Integral Yoga Teachers Can Share:

1. Service of silence—sitting, being, presence: We call on our inner resources to maintain our peace while serving others.

2. Releasing tension: As Integral Yoga teachers, we’ve been trained to help others with deep relaxation, visualization, scanning the body for tension, using imagery (re-focus, relax, re-frame, return to sense of order) and simple stretching to relax the body. Used carefully, with approval if necessary from health professionals, we have many ways to help others relax themselves, releasing tension.

3. Breathing through: Integral Yoga Teacher Training has given us three-part breathing, ways to balance breath, deep breath techniques (“in-spire,” sigh, release tension, etc.), ways of matching breath, concentrated and controlled breath, and even a cooling breath. All of these pranayama techniques, when you are trained and have health professional approval, are very helpful for people in transition.

4. Looking within: All people can use assistance in assessment of their present situation, in talking through a life review, and in reflection of where to go from here. Sri Swami Sivananda, Sri Swami Satchidananda, and other great teachers have all indicated that God will not waste a single breath on a person. When that person’s work/service in this lifetime is done, death happens. The trained yogi can bring peace, acceptance, centeredness, and love to assist the person.

5. Adding Spirit: As Swami Satchidananda and Father Keating have said, we have three practices: prayer, when we talk to God (Divine Presence in any form); meditation when we listen for the divine answer; and contemplation, when we think about the answer and prepare to make changes. This three-part practice directly addresses any concern we may have. You will find it useful for yourself daily and certainly for use when dealing with those on the path of dying.

6. Adapt, Adjust, Accommodate: As yogis, we know this is the key to everything! Keep your peace, enjoy the journey, and apply this quote to everything in your life, and especially in preparing for death.

Some Fine Points

1. As the person comes closer to dying, the body often becomes very still. Movement is still useful, but our job is to aid, not insist on any activity. A few days before death, there is often a burst of energy and close loved ones often interpret this to mean the person is getting better, which is usually not the case. Near death, the breath becomes irregular and even stops for some time. All the organs begin to shut down, energy focuses on the heart area, and the person loses his or her senses. Again, any big hospital or hospice can give you booklets with specifics. Your job is to assist family and friends in not becoming afraid, obsessed, or demanding of interventions as the person goes through these expected experiences. . .

Read the rest of this article in the Winter 2016 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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Every March, for the past ten years, I’ve led practices on and off the mat at the Psychotherapy Networker Symposium, a mind-expanding four days of workshops, keynotes, dancing, and schmoozing with old friends in Washington, D.C. Many of the therapists in our breakout sessions have gone on to become LifeForce Yoga Practitioners and now integrate Yoga-based practices into their sessions with clients. They find that just a few minutes at the beginning of a psychotherapy session can make a significant difference in the outcome of that session and can bolster the ongoing work of therapy. For instance, when a clinician weaves in a Yoga breathing exercise with a mudra (hand gesture) or a simple tone, the therapist finds the client is better able to focus and have access to feelings, without being overwhelmed by them.

None of the LifeForce Yoga practices used in a clinical setting require a mat, and they help the client to self-regulate at home. In the session, they help the client focus on the important issues in therapy. Psychotherapists I’ve trained often speak of how teaching a client a therapeutic Yoga skill not only empowers the client to manage her mood, but in the act of practicing together, the therapeutic bond is strengthened. Sherry Rubin, a clinical social worker in Pennsylvania, and a LifeForce Yoga Mentor shared a note that her client had sent her. The client had been in treatment with Sherry before, and then returned, years later, after Sherry had begun integrating Yoga-based practices into her clinical work. “When I came before,” the client wrote Sherry, “you helped me understand and get where I wanted to go. Now you show me Yoga practices I use to help myself understand and get where I want to go.”

Therapists who suffer from burnout, having heard one traumatic tragedy too many, tell me that their clinical work feels fresh and exciting again. The practices they teach to clients give the therapists a renewed energy and optimism, reinvigorating their clinical practices with moments of clarity, connection and, yes, even moments of bliss. I love sharing with clinicians ways in which they can enjoy their practice more and help their clients come to see who they really are beneath the story they’ve been repeating in therapy.

Belinda, a psychotherapist who works with adolescents, shared a story about her use of a practice I like to call Stair Step Breath (anuloma and viloma krama). Belinda taught this breathing practice, that includes imagery, to an intelligent, academically inclined adolescent boy named Stephen, who had been bullied by classmates for several years and had no friends. Stephen was not athletic and often felt humiliated in gym class when he was the last to be chosen for a team sport. The ringleader used the locker room as an opportunity to further shame Stephen for his slight stature and his mannerisms, which the bully identified as gay. Stephen had not experienced attraction to other boys, but the incessant taunts that followed him down the hallway and back into the classroom left him confused about his sexual orientation and deeply embarrassed in his school life.

Belinda worked with Stephen for several months and although his parents had intervened at the school on his behalf and the ringleader was no longer abusing him, Stephen’s depressed mood continued to deepen. He developed one physical symptom after another, and his absences from school increased. He lost interest in his studies and his grades declined. At home he was moody and often provoked fights with his younger sister, who was now accusing him of bullying her.

After Belinda attended my training, she incorporated Yoga tools into her work with clients and introduced Stephen to Stair Step Breath. She also encouraged his parents to practice it with him and gave them a CD to teach them how to do it. After two weeks of regular practice, Stephen was more energetic and came into sessions talking about guitar lessons. The next week he talked about a new friend who was into the same bands he liked. The friend was on the debating team and encouraged Stephen to join. Within a month, Stephen was working hard at school, had won a debate, and was talking on the phone with a girl on the debating team. By the end of the semester, his grades had improved and Stephen was ready to terminate therapy. He said that he and his friends were signing up for a Yoga class the next semester instead of gym …

Read the rest of this article in the Fall 2015 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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Think about a great Yoga class that you attended. What made that class great? It could have been as simple as where your own body and mind were on that particular day. Or it might have been the space, or the other students. For most students, it was probably the teacher. So, how do you teach a great class?

Teaching any style of Yoga class involves many layers of skill and understanding. Teachers can keep their teaching skills strong by keeping a commitment to their own practice, attending other classes, and trying to maintain a continuing education approach. Beyond understanding asana and other practices themselves, there are some key elements that help a teacher lead a great class.

I began serving at the Integral Yoga Institute of New York in 1996. I have been through a long journey of holding different positions there while on my own path. From working as a food store cashier to serving as one of the administrative managers, I have covered all the bases. For several years, I was one of the teacher trainers, and I spent a considerable amount of time in the role of teacher coordinator. I have had the pleasure of attending thousands of classes, and I have faced the challenge of giving many teachers feedback on their classes.

Teaching an Integral Yoga class has its own special nuances. There are boundaries and guidelines to our format and offerings. For me, what is most special about an Integral Yoga class, is the focus on an inward journey for the practitioner. Serving as a guide on this journey has been one of the most satisfying roles of my life. I have always strived to be an open channel for the teachings and to keep my teaching skills strong so that I may be a better guide. The following are a few tips to help achieve this goal:

1. Use your practice—don’t do your practice

There are many ways in which this comes into play. I often encourage new teachers to remember to use their own practice so that they can be an open channel for the teachings. Keeping the spine lifted and the chest open allows for a clear channel for the breath. From this place you can remain more aware. We all know this, but utilizing it is sometimes forgotten.

When standing to teach, remember to find your own Tadasana first. With your feet rooted down, skeleton balanced, breath flowing, the words will come with ease. This sounds very basic, but I have witnessed many teachers coming out of alignment to lean over to one side, cross their arms, bite their finger nails, and shift their hips while they say “Um” or other verbal fillers. If you use your alignment and breath, the mind will become clear and the teachings will flow. This flow facilitates the moving meditation. Think about what you are teaching and embody that.

Teaching time is not the time for you to do your own practice. If you do your own practice, then you are not able to see all of your students and you will not be able to help them find comfort and ease. When I witness a teacher who is doing the majority of the class along with the students, I also see them missing some key moments. If you are doing the asanas, then you will not see the man in the far corner who is twisting his knee out of alignment as he tries turning his hips for Warrior I. He doesn’t know that he should try to widen his stance and adjust his feet for a more easeful pose—you need to guide him. You will not see the woman who is overarching her spine in downward dog, or the man who could really use a prop to elevate his hips in Paschimottanasana, or the woman who is hurting her cervical spine in Fish Pose. You need to be there for the students. Come off the mat, onto your feet, and see what is front of you.

2. Authenticity in speech

Be who you are. This is very challenging. We all have experienced either being, or listening to, a teacher who puts on a great show with his or her voice and modulation. There are some typical personas we take on as teachers …

Read the rest of this article in the Fall 2015 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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Music is an integral part of my life. My being born into a family of singers and growing up in a musical atmosphere led naturally to my being trained in Indian classical vocal music. My first encounter with the concept of Nada Brahma was my teacher’s advice to “sing in such a way that you resonate with the universal sound.” Wow! But what did he mean by “universal sound?” That was a little seed planted in my heart. The searching for an answer opened doors to a deeper understanding both of music and of Nada Brahma, and the connection between the two inspired me to immerse myself in the study of Nada Yoga.

Nada Yoga interprets the cosmos through the medium of sound. Such a way of perceiving the world unites ancient myths and modern science. Since Pythagoras established a correlation between musical notes and mathematical ratios, it is not fanciful to see music everywhere in the universe, from the tiniest atoms to the movement of planets—and, of course, in our own bodies.

Because the range of sound accessible to us is very limited, our exploration of Nada extends beyond audible sound to wider concepts of harmony, balance, and rhythm.

We look for ways to  endow our posture and movement with those qualities. A harmonious distribution of effort prevents chronic overuse of some areas while other parts atrophy. We learn to appreciate the fundamental role of rhythm, without which we would be unable even to walk. Rhythm binds both us, and the cosmos, together.

Within the context of Indian music, the term Nada refers to the essence of the vibration of sounds of music. Thus, although our journey may begin with audible sound, such as mantra and song, it must lead us to deeper realms of being, just as chanting the mantra Om, that perfect symbol of Nada, is followed by the silence from which the manifest universe emanates.

The practices of Nada Yoga are simple but have the potential to deepen our meditation very quickly. A practice such as chanting bija (seed) mantras while focusing on chakra locations, for example, brings us into a state of pratyahara. Chanting and kirtan are designed to draw us within and calm our minds, thus preparing us for meditation.

Mantras are sound vibrations. Some have a deep meaning that one might contemplate, while others have no particular meaning. Why is the sound of a mantra different from that of any other word? In one respect there is no difference, if we believe that all sound manifests from Om. But in the initial stages of our practice, we choose sounds associated in our mind with profound value and meaning, thus enabling the vibrations of those sounds to be effective.

Advaita, the Ashtavakra Gita, and the Mandukya Upanishad

“Each soul is potentially divine. The goal is to manifest this divinity within . . . either by work, or worship or psychic control, or philosophy, by one, or more or all of these—and be free . . . . Doctrines, dogmas, rituals, books, temples, or forms, are but secondary details.” Swami Vivekananda’s works on Advaita Vedanta struck a deep chord in my heart. Advaita Vedanta is the philosophy of Non-dualism. It boldly proclaims that our true nature is non-dual. We are that un-fragmented whole. We are that Sat Chit Ananda—Existence Absolute, Consciousness Absolute, Bliss Absolute. Tat twam asi—You are That! While we identify ourselves in duality, we are unable to see ourselves as the un-fragmented whole and thus remain deluded.

Adi Shankara, in his poem Bhaja Govindam, expresses that idea with clarity. In thirty-one verses he points out how our delusions stem from false identification with our ego-self—with wealth, status, family, and sexuality—and, thus leads us to duality and multiplicity. The Self is just one complete un-fragmented whole—the Atma. When our ignorance drops off, the true Self shines forth. It’s as simple as that! There is nowhere to go, nothing to do. This is the philosophy of non-doership.

These ideas are also expressed beautifully and succinctly in the text, Ashtavakra Gita, which takes the form of a dialogue between the sage Ashtavakra and his disciple Janaka. The teachings are simple and direct, not only appealing to the intellect but going straight to the heart. It begins with Janaka’s asking his Guru how liberation can be attained. Ashtavakra replies that the only way is to detach oneself from duality. As long as we identify with the non-Self, the Self remains masked, and we are thereby shrouded in ignorance. In chapter 6 we read: “I am like the ocean, and the multiplicity of objects is comparable to a wave. To know this is knowledge, and then there is neither renunciation, acceptance, nor cessation of it.” It is one of the beautiful images created by Ashtavakra to enable seekers to grasp the concept of the non-dual Self…

Read the rest of this article in the Fall 2015 issue of Integral Yoga Magazine.

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