Winter Solstice 2023

By Me

   

Taking a Break

To the dear CMY community, 

After long and heartfelt deliberation, I have decided to take some time away from teaching public yoga classes. 

lighted path, wishes come true :: sfe  2018

Sharing this decision feels like practicing revolved triangle pose: It’s hard, I sort of dread it and feel like I’m about to fall over. But thanks to time and repetition, I know that if I do practice this challenge, some new space will be created and, after the hard part, I’ll revive the flow of energy in my body, the creative flow in my heart and the clarity in my mind.

For two decades yoga has been a source of healing and strength in my life. That remains. CMY has been a place of nourishment as a student and a cornerstone of my personal and professional development as a teacher. The intrinsic motivation to share the practice has felt divinely and inextricably guided by source. It has been an honor and a privilege to share yoga. I feel continually inspired to see, feel and hear the way that this practice has changed the lives of each of you who have shared it with me over many years. Thank you for this, for letting me into your space and trusting me to be a part of your experience.  It is so hard to say that I will not see you in class on a weekly basis. This feels like practicing the pose I don’t want to practice but know I must because I’ve identified, as I say in class, a flat tire that needs some air. And as divinely guided as my public teaching has felt, so too is the call to turn inward, to be quieter and to reestablish a boundary between my practice and the business of yoga. Thanks to my intimate relationship with the practice I feel clear that the call to reclaim this boundary is important, necessary and timely. This feels both empowering and vulnerable…similar to how practicing yoga feels each time we practice with a sincere approach. 

I’d love to close this letter by sharing my plan for the future but the truth is, I do not know what’s next. I know what I have come to learn and trust through years of practice: that awareness will light the way and trust in the deep call I hear in the quiet must be honored. And simply that it’s time to take a break.

So for now, and always, keep practicing. As I say upon closing each practice:  feel gratitude for your body, your practice, your breath. Thank you for sharing your practice. I wish you a peaceful day, a peaceful week and wishes come true.

With love and gratitude, Stephanie

Equinox

by Stephanie Frances Earls 

VFS/sfe c 1975

holding hands again
our spirits straddle the distance 

in the balance: 
light and dark
life and death

this time
as you go 
some things are not so

even...

             breath… 

quick

s

l

o

w

quick again

...is heart shaped

at the bottom of your throat

it’s not clear where the balance settles

as you push/slip through the passage 

although in part the symmetry is sublime:

one twin comforting you here

the other reaching for you there

(i write so i don’t cry... 
                                      .
                                          .                    
                                              .  until the day is quiet)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

four equinox ago

you celebrated and saw me back

after i sailed through a passage

i’m taking it on faith

(and your word)

that you will be back 

after you sail through yours

death is wonder

where/to? when?

transition is mystery

how do you feel? how do you feel?

is the light as bright 

and the love as deep 

and gentle

as it feels all around you now?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 
 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

i take as comfort and confirmation

the otherworldly messages you delivered

with luminescent eyes when the fog cleared

the last time day and night were equal.

i take as comfort and confirmation

the movement of your mouth today when I said 

I love you

(i’ll believe that you heard me from halfway there

and tried to say, so i could hear, here,  I love you too)

i take as comfort and confirmation

your life 

so well-lived with balance and goodness

that the heart shaped pulse of breath

at the base of your throat

became your parting expression.

for Bumpy ♡

vfs/sfe 2014

Knit Tightly, Hold Lightly

by Stephanie F. Earls 

SFE 2017

There is an invisible web woven in groups, in yoga, in life. From time to time the classes I’ve taught have lost members to life change/flow or injury/healing or birth/death. Likewise, I’ve been a student in groups that have resolved or classes with teachers who’ve retired or moved. I've also had to make my own changes as life has redirected me. Whether by our own choice or by causes beyond us, long or short term, these changes force a shift that reshapes our many webs; taking us out of some and into others. In yoga we are guided to hold dear the things that matter while not suffocating ourselves or others with our hold. Yoga philosophy names this notion of non-attachment aparigraha.  It can manifest physically, such as when we prep for headstand and weave our fingers tightly at the webbing while we hold our fingers lightly over our hands. In both the physical and the philosophical, as the yogis say: knit tightly, hold lightly. 

Recently, after receiving word of the passing of one of our beloved studio regulars, my Tuesday night class circled around. In our own ways we honored her with our voices and blessed her in our hearts and minds. It was a spontaneous and subtle emanation which I hope she could hear and feel from where she is. She held a part of the web at our studio.  As the weeks pass we still feel her light and glow and we miss her in the place she held. Processing her loss brought to the forefront for me, how each of you, each of us, present and past/passed hold a dear place in our web. The echo you create calls forth gratitude in your void and in your presence. You matter.

It’s for each of us to say whether the concept of non-attachment is physically/psychically/emotionally easy or challenging in practice. The opportunity to practice is abundant as things change. Beyond the aforementioned student, life lately has shifted for so many people in my classes and communities: several loved ones lost, dear ones moved away, hearts and minds changed, schedules anew. The fall has been full of births and deaths in literal and figurative ways. We practice: knit tightly, hold lightly. 

We welcome new arrivals to our classes/lives/hearts and concurrently for those who have left, feel it when you’re gone. Our groups feel the shifts because the corners of our webs that each individual holds include the intention, sometimes unspoken, that we choose to practice together. Regardless of how much or little we “actually know” about each other through talk or information, we feel and know each other deeply because we show up with a gentle willingness to move our bodies, be aware of our breath and practice feeling alive. If you are not here now the resonance of your spirit keeps your spot(s) humming. At the studio, each class knits tightly a weave all its own, a uniquely beautiful collection of people, insight and healing. We are here for each other, each of us teachers and each of us students. 

Interwoven, we know and hold each other while we do our soul work alone, together. Collectively we agree to come to practice, to be vulnerable in the same space, and to trust. As individual as our work may feel, in a yoga class (in life) we weave this web of safety with each other. Even for the most introverted and private of us (so many yogis are), when we come together and move through our breath and our body, our individual and collective intentions weave the invisible web of knowingness through each of us. It becomes our strength, a source of nourishment and reprieve. We hold each other and bring each other along, some coming in and some going out, in practice, with diligence and repetition, knitting tightly, holding lightly. 

Let it Be: a Bit on Yin Yoga

by Stephanie F. Earls

Yin yoga is a phrase that describes an approach to Hatha yoga postures that is slower, less muscular and more meditative. It is a chance to practice being still within the parameters of 3-5 minute stays in postures to promote joint health.  The physical movements help create space in the body so that being still becomes easier. The mental/emotional component promotes ease in the heart and mind. In time.

I could write a book (and many have) about all there is to yin. Today’s blog is about the 

approach or mindset of yin yoga which is, in a word, receptivity.  Nicknamed “the quiet practice”, I think of yin yoga as a chance to, as The Beatles sang, “let it be”. In setting an intention of receptivity, we cultivate a sense of openness to ourselves and our experience as we sit still and listen. Sometimes easier said than done.

Central Mass Yoga sits conveniently on a busy road. Sometimes the quiet space of the studio is accented by roaring 18 wheelers and revving Harleys outside studio A in the front of the building, and a garbage truck that comes to empty the dumpster outside studio C in the back of the building.

At 9:30 on Monday mornings, yin yoga happens in studio C.  Once class begins, quiet descends and is decorated in summer months by chirping birds, a humming fan or distant rooster. We center our minds and settle our bodies, becoming still to take a look at what’s inside ourselves and whether it’s one of those days when we find peace of mind or a mind in pieces, a whole heart or a hole in the heart.  It all seems pretty serene.  And then the garbage truck shows up.

Typically the truck rumbles in before 10:00 am but these last couple of weeks have been exceptionally quiet through the first half of class, windows open and a sweet breeze. I anticipate the truck’s arrival, knowing I’ll have to raise my voice and hoping it’s not enough distraction to discourage yogis from returning to class the next week. When the truck was late in recent weeks I hoped it was final reprieve. Its absence kept things simple for me, maybe simpler for the yogis too.  But by the quietest closing moments of class, the truck banged in, crashed around while it unloaded the dumpster and took the trash away.

Yin yoga is one way to unplug and quiet the constant whirr, just like reading a book or having a cup of tea or taking a nap. Like any moment of quiet, as we become still we also become astutely aware of the slightest rumble: an ache in the body, a worried thought, a harsh self judgement…or on the other side, an elated emotion or pleasurable sensation.  The garbage truck’s weekly showing is the perfect metaphor for the experience of quieting down to listen to ourselves. Inevitably, our peace is jostled by something disruptive and unexpected. Or, in anticipation of the unexpected, maybe to the point of needless worry, it never comes and we’ve spent those quiet moments bracing for the bang. 

On the outside at the studio it’s rumbling garbage trucks, clanging dumpsters or revving motorcycles. Internally it might be garbage thoughts, clanging emotions or stale memories. Whether we consider them positive or negative, pleasurable or painful, the experiences that come up when we get quiet are part of the process while we steady our roots in the foundation of our inner truth. Ripples of doubt and delight, gratitude and grievance, whether they be physical, emotional or mental are not markers of success or failure when we practice peace of mind and self care. They are just ebbs and flows in the tides of our experience. We drop the anchor when we remember that sitting with ourselves need not be about denying any of the garbage (or grandeur) that surfaces and likewise not riding away with the garbage truck. We drop our anchor when we see the garbage truck come, do its thing and go, knowing it will be temporary. 

In yin yoga the practice moves slow. We linger in the poses to create space in the body, while we give ourselves time in mind and heart to practice and reaffirm that what comes up is simply part of being a person.  We listen to ourselves the way we would listen to a good friend who needs our attention: with an open ear, soft eyes and tender heart.  We know each pose (and the thoughts and feelings with it) will last a few minutes but like the truck, will come and go.

With slow, receptive practice we have the chance to break free of the dumpster collections in the corners of our mind, heart and body. Some of that garbage clears out quickly. Some we practice with for decades. We try to remember that everything in the dumpster was at one point nourishing (yummy or useful or helpful).  The thoughts, feelings and sensations circulating have served us and will continue to until it’s time for them to go. Allowing things to be as they are, we strengthen our ability to open a path so that what needs to come in can come in, and what needs to go out can go out without our gripping or pushing or forcing. 

We can use the practice to handle anything that clutters the scene while we root to our inner truth. With awareness we can choose to shift focus to where we want it to be. When our inner voice sounds muffled under rubble, when we are not sure where we want our focus to be, the practice is here without pretense, without expectation, providing a structure to anchor ourselves in. And when we hear our inner truth again, we can steady ourselves regardless of the grievances or gratitudes at hand. We can settle roots in our truth so that no matter how many garbage thoughts or garbage trucks come roaring by, no matter how many motorcycles of the mind startle us, we know our way back to that healthy space where we are still and able to hear ourselves. In that fold rests our freedom, not a finish line to cross, but a path to walk or rumble along. 

Discovery

for all our loves, lost too soon
by Stephanie F. Earls

you(2)

shone in the quiet, 

dark days 

a solstice storm

on the way in

and on the way out

union and void

invisible evidence

in your wake

binary stars 

(y)our vesicas

a paradox of infinity 

too far to touch

yet warm in heart

death and life hold hands

longing is (l)onl(e)y

quenched with hope

so you are written

while slipping or setting (i’m not sure which)

into distant sky

eyes and heart too spellbound

to write you sooner

in the midst of

fire and light

storm and sea

clarity and confusion

truth

once seen by naked eye

now a pulse of memory and potential

part of

every sun, every moon

i knew the last (first) time i saw you 

would be the last time i saw you

i knew i would miss you 

even before you knew you were gone

**

oh starlights, how to deliver

tender vulnerability?

how to keep it protected

as it births?