The Harm of Plagiarism (Asteya: Do not steal).

 When I was in first grade (this is a true story), one of my classmates forgot to do – didn’t do - her homework assignment. I’ll admit, I was a kid who liked homework. I loved it, actually. First grade homework involved crayons and markers, wooden #2 pencils, their gratifying erasers, and ditto sheets or stapled paper booklets. It’s basically why I went into education. :)

Anyway, that previous night’s first grade homework assignment given to us by Mrs. Cowan was to think about our favorite fruits, write about what we like about them, and to draw a picture. Again, writing and illustrating, everything I live for. So I had picked an apple and banana. Uncreative choices perhaps, but what I knew and loved.

At the top of the page were my drawings. Apple on left – a red circle drawn in my signature fashion of dark pressing hard with the wax crayon till it lightly stuck onto the paper around the edge and colored in more softly on the inside with a dark stem and two leaves. And a lopsided lemonade-yellow banana on the right. My written description of my appreciation for them involved maybe 3 sentences on dotted lined paper – the kind to help us with our De’Nealian handwriting.

So my classmate began to panic that she didn’t do the homework assignment. She used to wear a bow in her hair every day, and I always liked her kind of aloof vibe though we weren’t particularly close friends (our last names were far apart in the alphabet, as were our seats). She came up to me before the start of class and urgently asked me what the assignment was. I had the prompt rewritten at the top of my paper, so I showed it to her. She asked if she could borrow it, and I said yes. Given that it was an open-ended question, I would never have thought what happened would happen.

My classmate returned my homework paper to me before class started, but when I saw Mrs. Cowan was coming around to collect homework from each of us, from across the tables I saw the paper my classmate handed in on top of the homework stack – a giant red circle, dark around the edge and lighter red in the middle with a dark stem and two leaves, and a lopsided lemonade-yellow banana on the right.

At first I was confused. Wait. What? And then I felt sick. Then angry. Then scared.

Mrs. Cowan came around and picked up my table’s homework assignments, and I didn’t know what to do. I would hand mine in I decided, but as a 6-year-old, I didn’t know that I was not in the wrong. I just knew that now two identical assignments to an open-ended question made no sense. And I was so afraid of getting in trouble. But I recall the strongest sensation of something that was then unidentifiable to me: a feeling of theft. That was MY work. I loved drawing that apple and banana, and I thought and worked hard on writing about why I loved apples and bananas the most of all fruits, and how could you steal that away from me. And now the teacher would have no idea if I had copied my classmate, or if she had copied me. I went back to a feeling of terror.

At some point, maybe between reading groups, I actually went up to my classmate. I was a pretty quiet kid back then, and I remember absolutely wanting to throw up. But it must have been how much I loved my work that walked my feet over to her desk. In a first grade way (I can’t exactly remember), I said to her, “How could you copy me? It doesn’t make sense to draw and write the same thing to a question that doesn’t have one right answer.”

And this was the part that was utterly disorienting. Her response to me - and I’ll never forget it – was, “I didn’t.”

Now, you’d think that my reaction would be retaliation, “Yes you did!!!” But my classmate's nonchalant demeanor and the way she appeared to really believe her own statement without a trace of guilt – her “I didn’t” - made me question myself, imagine if I was seeing things, if I had falsely accused. I was suddenly voiceless.

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This is a true story that comes to mind as I handle a lot of things right now as an adult. I didn’t sleep much last night. Or for the last week since becoming aware of a published and republished 2018 article by an author who plagiarized my words, my voice, my researched facts and stories – down to order - of a 2017 article of mine that took me months of reflection to frame and word just right with my editorial team. And I wonder why, and but how could-?, and I worry about the aftermath, my inability to control added harm in spite of trying, and I wonder about the multitude of connections, voice, and credit that for nearly two years has been attributed to someone else, and I empathize with all the people that this has happened to far too many times in our history. The blatant irony of how this has happened to Yoga itself as I write to stand up for it.

How confused. Sick. Mad. And scared I am.

Because of this, I’ve felt myself concerned about losing grip on my writing and the values I stand for, and yet one thing I know - one thing I’ve wanted to be since I was small - is an author and illustrator. So this morning, I turned to writing to tell you this story.

I imagine you’re wondering what happened in first grade that day. Or maybe you’re not, but I like imagining you’d like to know thanks to my effective build of suspense, ha.

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Mrs. Cowan began checking our homework, and as I looked over to her desk, I wondered if I should say anything. If I did, what would I say? I was still learning how to build a basic sentence. Until suddenly, I saw Mrs. Cowan’s eyes pause on the page in her hands. And then what I feared the most.

“Rina,” she called. Then my classmate’s name called in succession. “Both of you, please come see me at my desk.”

I fumbled and furied and fretted and I wanted to say Mrs. Cowan I swear I didn’t know she would copy me and I swear it was my work. But the time my classmate and I arrived at Mrs. Cowan’s side, I had nothing but blankness in my mind.

Mrs. Cowan said nothing. She turned the identical papers around to face both of us. And looked at us both.

And then, my classmate started to cry. Heave. Sob. Her confession was wordless. Mrs. Cowan acknowledged me with a warm look, placed my homework paper back onto the stack with a check plus, and I was sent back to my seat.

I didn’t ever receive a direct apology from my classmate. And this story was never erased from my memory. I can still even see my classmate’s green and white striped skirt outfit and her matching bow. She was a child who didn't know better. And Mrs. Cowan helped us both.

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I am really angry, hurt, and tired right now. Partially because of the belief that of course an adult would steal my work. But another thing I know is that Yoga never claims that life is easy. Wrong and harmful things like this unfortunately happen, which is why some guidelines can help us as we deal with them. Don’t steal (asteya). It creates fires of ongoing pain. And fire won’t put out the fire (ahimsa). And impermanence tells me, I’ll probably feel shitty (and perhaps those who love me will feel shitty) for a bit longer. I will feel tired as I take energy to be mindful in my communication as I still advocate for long-term justice (because it does take a lot of energy to not just advocate, but to do so consciously and for the marathon, not the sprint), then after that it will hopefully feel more ok, then this will likely rear its head again in some way, and then I’ll feel ok to move forward again till it possibly comes up again. Messy. Not avoidable. But something I can anticipate and prepare for at least a little, thanks to the true meaning of Yoga.

For now though, there is a burning question in my mind that also relates to Yoga - conscious directing of our attention elsewhere to prevent depletion. So I’d genuinely love to know:

What is your favorite fruit or fruits, and what do you like about them? Optional drawings welcome. :)

Love,

Rina Deshpande

<3 @rinathepoet

Thank you for reading and for your support.

Theory of Chaos

I'm tutoring an awesome Frenchman in English who happens to be a mathematician. He brought up in our last meeting the Theory of Chaos. "Tu connais?" he asked. I didn't know it, but he explained:

"The Theory of Chaos is that anything, anything even so small, anywhere on the planet that's happening, affects you. For example, a butterfly flying in Polynesia can ever so slightly affect the wind, which changes the way an ant may be walking and stumbles upon someone's foot and gives it a bite; the person starts to itch and need aloe cream, which affects the time the cashier at the store makes a call to her cousin in the U.S., which affects the time the cousin goes for a jog that evening, which affects a car that waits for her to cross the street, in which car you sit as you wait to make your way to a theatrical play, which affects the seat you get by the time you get there, which affects how you perceive the play, and so on, and so on, infinitely."

Is that not amazing? First, that he explained the above Theory of Chaos in English after only beginning to learn English as a grown man in 2015 (I have polished it for this purpose, but wow - worthy of an entirely different blog post). And second, that when you really think about it, this feels irrefutable. Even the most subtle, tiniest, imperceptible decisions are touching the collective chaos, like a bunch of marbles clicking and clacking together over and over again. While this also underscores that Life can feel so unpredictable, it makes me realize that the more of us do small things with positive energy, the more the shape of the Chaos and its energy overall does change.

Individually, I am part of our giant, chaotic Collective. In Yoga, this is explained as drops of a large ocean. Each drop of an ocean - how do you define what makes a drop? the size? the shape? we don't really have one, there are so many kinds of drops - each drop of an ocean is the ocean, and the ocean is all of the drops. We- natural beings, big and small - are the drops. How we think, how we act, how we behave shapes ourselves, shapes our immediate circle most obviously, but we often forget that it shapes the Collective in its Entirety. For those of us who believe in Divine intervention, this does not conflict with the concept of an Intention, a Plan, but that we have been granted Free Will. It's a question of using our Free Will well.

If you're like me, sometimes when I'm looking at Facebook or newsfeeds to educate myself about the world's atrocities and how to help, my heart and body and mind start to cave in: betta fish stuck in isolation in plastic jars like props, people killing people, sexual abuse, bears trapped in rusting cages to make unnecessary beauty products, mounds and mounds of plastic and trash on the side of the road, in our forests, in our oceans, in our water, our food, our Everything. I'm a sensitive person (always have been, and finally understand that it's a strength and not a weakness I should apologize for; I just needed to learn how to harness it and transform it while creating boundaries for myself - something that I'm learning to do better each day), and as a sensitive person when I look at the world all at once and see all of the bad, all of the shit, all of the indifference and lack of deference, I'm just like, what. hope. is. there. at. all. It is absolute chaos.

And it is exactly that. Chaos we are a part of. Chaos that we have the Free Will to shape.

My mathematician tutoring student just rolled me this marble, which has just clacked into my brain that anything, any small thing that I choose to do with a good heart, does have an effect. It does. It might not be something I perceive. The butterfly in Polynesia might not affect the ant's direction much, but its position affects the wind on its wings without question - imperceptible to me, yes, but not imperceptible in the grand scheme. It has not just one effect, but so many - the sunlight casting a shadow of its wings on the grass depending on the time of day, how it affects the growth of the grass, etc., etc. When I think about this as just a set of action verb after action verb, I'm still unsettled that a deed I see as helpful may not only have positive ripples, that it's just a sea of unpredictability of actions. But when I consider this as an energetic concept, it's hard to deny that any small act of good that I observe or receive positively shapes me. Perhaps the formula isn't perfect, perhaps we can't control everything and that can bring us down, but most of the time, good energy yields good energy. And that is something we can control.

Now that this marble clacked a marble in my brain and heart, I hope my writing this and sharing clacks a marble (or few) in you to feel hope and possibility when it all looks like Chaos. To do what you think might be too small, not a big enough thing, whenever it calls you. Just do. You don't have to have some kind of weekly resolution to be the person who picks up a piece of litter. You don't have to be the perfect environmentalist or animal activist to opt for the more expensive humanely-treated eggs whenever you can. Little by little. Every little bit of good energy counts shifts the chaos - our Collective - for the better.

Thank you for sharing, Ali.

My friend, Ali Fadlallah:

You don't know how by your social media share months ago you've shaped me. Somewhere in my core you have really, really shaped me. I mean I suddenly broke. And I break and break again. And it was needed and I didn't even know.

You shared a news clip of a little baby child in Aleppo covered in debris and blood, whose aunt and only surviving family member - also covered in dust and blood - cries and yells in hysterics at octaves much softer than I ever could imagine bellowing myself at the gruesome loss of her own entire family in a bomb - brothers, sisters, children, husband, cousins. I have seen and read many things and I want to imagine myself as an empathic sensitive being - it is what I practice - but what you shared, Ali - it showed me myself.

This little child's eyes, lips, hair, face...looked just. like. mine.

On Sunday mornings lately (now realizing for a few months), I have been consciously leaving my phone at home and find myself walking in Brooklyn - often, now regularly, into the church around the corner. It is not to be identified in religion, or because I'm forced; the Reverend - a refreshingly authentic speaker at a podium in front of hundreds from all races, ethnicities, ages, long-time followers in flowered hats and their Sunday best, new attendees, non-followers - gives me reason to believe and sculpts new insights in me. This Reverend, just to stay aware of what our minds might have been conditioned to imagine, is a She. And she not only offers her words, but she invited her Muslim colleague and scholar to share his in advance of the election with the group. She had Buddhist mindfulness meditation offered. She most recently had her friend, a rabbi, lead a service. I am not going to be surprised when various other sects, cultures, religions - my own of Hinduism - are welcomed and invited to speak and be felt, heard, absorbed, honored.

This Reverend - also happens to be black. And she is likely naturally grounded, but also so very clearly committed to practicing daily, how to be FUCKING awesome. Apologies if the language offends - the word really offers me the utmost positive spiritual release.

The first Sunday of this January upon coming back to NYC from family, teaching New Year's Eve yoga, I thought I was tired, but then came in late to service to receive and set intentions. And boy did I.

Reverend Adrienne Thorne had placed pieces of papers face down around the room. And during her service, she asked those sitting near one of those papers to lift it high to be seen. On each, the name of one of forty countries (more?) that have experienced suffering, political oppression - some current, some within last centuries - to acknowledge, to realize some we've never even heard of, and to know. "Talk to people. Commit to even just one. Read," she urged. We brought to mind people we may have never met and honored their pain. We offered our silent and collective good will through her prayer.

And there in my mind, Ali, did I see the face of the little one you posted - covered in fresh grey dust, wanting to cry or speak to healthcare workers but sitting with puckered lips, big brown-black eyes like mine were as a child, wide and in shock, silent having just lost mother, father, sisters, brothers, family, home. I didn't know I would, but like vomit I began to sob. Heaving, heaving, HEAVING sobs. Heaving, heaving, heaving. For the little one. Who could be me. Who could be mine. Who IS me. Who IS MINE. Who IS OURS. I am sorry for your pain, Little One, and I am committed to do whatever I can, in whatever capacity I can, whenever I can to make sure that you are going to be ok.

My friend, Ali Fadlallah: I thank you. Sometimes I want to turn off the Facebook feed. And sometimes I want to fold up the paper, shut off the radio, and turn off my phone to escape. Goodness knows I do these things Sunday mornings. But I understand why I do it now. Not to flee. But to reflect in wholeness, and to restore to continue with full heart, strongly, fully forward for the little one in Aleppo, and for the little ones in us All.

The Heckler

There is a man who sits at his 2nd floor window on Pineapple Street - white hair that could use a wash, upper 60s perhaps - and heckles.

You walk by? You're a candidate. 

Parking your car? Get ready. 

Feeling like a cup of joe this Sunday morning from the coffee shop below? Oh man, you gonna get it.

It's one of my favorite things to sit on the sidewalk bench when the weather's right on Sundays, sipping coffee and admiring the Cosby Show-esque brownstones, observing unaccustomed passersby react to his hateful comments:

"Ohhhh I just looove my coffeeeee like I've never had a coffeeeee before today it's the first time I got a stupid coffeeee oooooohhhhhhh."

"I have an ideaaa, lemme ignore the street signs and clog up the street with my car just so I can make life miserable for everybodyyyy, oh YEAH that's a GREAT idea." 

"I loooooove my phone ohhh I'm just walking around back and forth talking on the phone ohhh I'm SOOO special and have such important things to say."

The Heckler has probably had to deal with watching newbies infiltrate his neighborhood but the truth is, it really ain't that bad. You can hear the sound of crisp leaves graze the asphalt on the breeze. People typically stop their cars briefly to read the signs to avoid a ticket. Most are walking in a quiet smile to themselves just wantin' a coffee, wondering if they'll get the raisin bran muffin today. And then, they're suddenly slammed by the echoing voice from upstairs.

Sometimes, a novice thinks, "Wait, am I a horrible person?" Others furrow their brow in genuine confusion. If it's a lucky day, you get other white-haired guy who drives past and yells back up at him, "Ahhhhhhh shut up you f#@%ing nut!" Ultimately, everyone laughs.

If the Heckler takes a day off, I kinda miss him. Or maybe I miss the laughter practice. Goodness knows he's helped me learn to laugh off the dark-haired heckler, mid 30s, who echoes from upstairs in my head.

Dirty Laundry

Dear Friends,

I feel like writing from a place of pure, messy honesty. I worry about it because my cultural training is not to air any dirty laundry, but to me, laundry more often feels sweaty than clean and I believe it's important to acknowledge times that feel tough. Because they're human. The practice is not just for times of pretty, shiny stability. It's for all the times.

Research grants and savings serve me and there is no moment when I have taken it for granted. But in the next month or so, I'm down to the end of my financial sack. Somehow (how?? Ha, I love that it's unclear and yet) this last year, I have managed to pay my Brooklyn studio rent, eat, and even travel on my earnings and previous savings from work in ed reform the previous five years and until I write it, I forget to be proud of that. If you ask me how I made it work, I'm not sure I'd have an answer that would satisfy. I honestly don't know. With a lot of ups and downs on the emote-o-meter? With friends and family who have stood by me (thank you). With yoga.

For the first time in life, I have not been on a moving track. The momentum has not come with an "on" button and rubbery treadmill moving my feet. But I wanted to know what it's like. To be my own Boss. Do I have enough capacity to take on a 9th project? Check with the Boss. Want time off? I ask the Boss. HR problem? Talk to the Boss. Shit that's me.

Sometimes, my pay takes weeks or months to arrive, and when it does, it can be for $20 (thank God yoga teaching fills my spiritual well). Other times, it's for a few hundred. I dance a jig for both. I joke that I am my own personal assistant, and let me confirm on behalf of all of you who think you're crazy for suddenly looking up from your desk and realizing it's 2:00 and you haven't even begun to work on your important deadlined task but you really really swear you've been working, we greatly underestimate the amount of time it takes to email, plan, and confirm before the content creation even begins. This is not side stuff. This is entree stuff. Often, I have to follow up multiple times to see income not because of any ill will, but because I am a work visitor and the routine of pay never gelled. Travel comes from creative options- using airline miles and renting out your living space. The times when pay comes easy, well you can imagine how it feels like ice cold pink lemonade seaside on a summer day. An obnoxious, flowery description, but seriously. It feels that good. Perfectly cubed ice clinking like chimes on the side of the glass. Crisp, chilly lemony liquid sweetness. You get it.

Interestingly, though, the sensation of sharing something I so firmly believe in is what carries me. I have made the active choice to live away this year from really intensive, full-time employment that I had for a long time because I wanted to remember what it was like to sleep and eat foods that nourish me...and create. My mantra for a long time was "Nourish others, give to others," and it has slowly transformed to "Nourish self to give to others." And for the most part this year, I have really begun to understand what the airline stewardess with fake nails means when she models the oxygen mask. I wake up and eat first. Who knew? I hit the coffee shop and write. And read. And write some more. And draw. I teach. And have energy to date for fun. I practice yoga, meditation. And I jump on the train to Boston and crash on couches overnight with generous people I love. I see family. I teach some more.

Do I regret taking risks? Not even for a blink. To have the freedom to do so, well that in and of itself is a gift. And to be granted money to research and be a writer in NYC? It's been what I've dreamed of before I could dream. I have gotten to meet so many, teach from a place of relaxation, write curriculum, share myself through articles, and most importantly, practice the practice that I so often preached from a stabler, younger place and learn that it still always holds me up.

Why I write this is to acknowledge that in and throughout all of this goodness, I am also often afraid. And that is ok. Facebook, pretty shiny Facebook, how I truly do love you and also want to throw away any unintended mask or blip-free graph and just share with you. That wherever you are, I understand. And wherever I am, I know you understand, too.

Just because. :)

I’m thinking of my child self.  The days when unfilled hours were simply filled with whatever I felt like.  When the concept of purpose was not a course or a noose.  When I drew just to draw. Who cared why or if it ever got finished?

For hours, I would stare at an object, glance at paper, draw, stare at object, glance at paper, draw, stare... With friends. With family. Mostly by myself. For hours.

There was no goal sheet I set up. No tick mark to say I had done the task for the day, good job me.  No contest I was hoping to win.  Sometimes the drawings were fine. Sometimes they were great. Frequently they were bizarre and maybe not so good at all, crumpled into a ball and thrown into a bin.  Most often the reason why I drew was not necessarily to get better, but just because.

I did it just because. 

I felt like it. 

Remember when those were reasonable responses as children? 

“Hey- why you doing that?”

“I dunno? Just because?”

“Because why?

“I dunno? I feel like it?”

“Cool.”

I remember arguments with a man I loved in my 20s and considered settling down with: "but, Rina, why do you want to move somewhere new? What’s the reason?"  I never had an answer that satiated him.  “I dunno? Just because?”  I empathize with his then-frustration.

But I still can't help but feel that as adults, it is still reasonable to just feel like it.  Sometimes it seems like a part of ourselves we’ve lost.  For many of us, the inequality somewhere between adolescence and adulthood switched to Think > Feel.  

Let’s offer feeling back to ourselves. Between the duties and rent. At least sometimes.

Just because. 

On Yoga: An Indian-American Perspective

By Rina Deshpande

After receiving a call from a dear person in my life – also an Indian American – I’m seeing this as an opportunity to turn in the direction of explaining the experience of “yoga” – or at least what many think yoga is – from a cultural perspective.

Often, it is easier to illustrate by starting with a brief and true personal story.  So instead of making this harder for myself than it is, here goes:

I sat in the yoga room, signed up for a Sanskrit class with a group of fellow female strangers. As always, I was eager and excited to be in school.  And as pretty much always in academics and in yoga alike, I was the sole Indian in the room.

The class began, and the Sanskrit instructor – a kind white American woman in a woolen sweater who was so clearly invested in the power that is Sanskrit that she spent most her life studying it and speaking it – had us move through each of the areas of our mouths creating sound, projecting from our throats and next our bellies, and noticing the differences in how it feels in our bodies.  This, she explained, is the hidden, profound base of Sanskrit. Her explanation of the different sounds of the
letter “D” in Sanskrit made by placing the tongue slightly differently behind the teeth finally put into words the explanation I had been seeking for so long: why my last name of Deshpande, is pronounced more like “They-shpon-day” than “Desh-pan-day.”

Sounds foreign to American ears, the two women behind me with shiny hair began pronouncing the Indian sounds and bursting into fits of laughter.  There I sat, nearly twenty-five years out of elementary school, and I felt myself slump back into my seat the way I used to on a school bus when two white American boys (whose names I fully remember in spite of trying to shed them) would belt Indian accents and laugh into my face.  In this yoga classroom as an adult, my heart started racing. My shoulders sank. My head was hot. I worked hard in the moment to “channel my yoga” to observe myself in the situation, and my insides told me that this was unjust and unkind.

Heavy with upset through the rest of class, I did what I often do in such circumstances and decided to over-appreciate someone doing the right thing (a classic teacher-tactic).  I thanked the teacher who offered unabashed value and respect for one of the most ancient languages- if not the most ancient language – to exist. She was wonderful. And I let her know.

But now, it is a chance to speak to the other side.  Because after receiving a call from my friend who was off-put from a yoga class experience, I realize that speaking is not just for me. It’s for many.

In so many ways, it is a gift as a yoga practitioner of South Indian background to hear familiar words and mantras in yoga class in my adult life that so for so long I was ashamed to accept – being singled out for your skin color and hair and your father’s Indian accent has a longstanding effect.  For this reason, this is not meant to wave any fingers to anyone who accepts the Indian teachings known as Yoga.  It’s really to share my perspective and feelings as an Indian American practicing yoga.

Gifts are many in yoga, but it is exceptionally hard when you Google “yoga” and find people who are not Indian as the first images and stories to come up.  They are almost always white.  “Leaders” of yoga are frequently white men. “Practitioners,” “teachers,” and models are very often picture-perfect white women.

It is hard when a picture of a Ganesha is printed on a t-shirt.  As a different dear friend hadforwarded me in a beautiful piece on awareness of appropriation – we as human beings would ideally not print deities of others’ cultures or place them on our bodies as tattoos without recognizing truly and deeply what they mean.  If you see pictures or statues of such deities, it is lovely to accept them and learn about them. Please do. But there is something odd about mass productions as fun décor or sprinkling glitter as akshatha at the end of a class (experienced in yoga by yet another dear Indian friend) in a yoga class – mimicking a sacred ceremony in which sprinkling colored rice is an offering and blessing in India.

When I see a Ganesha or Lakshmi photo or statue at the front of a yoga room or on the side of a studio, I am both warmed to see my culture so vividly accepted, and yet also unfortunately off-put as I engage in yoga practice. In my family and as widespread practice in India, we do not place our feet on or toward anything we should show respect, including people. Foot-based adjustments in yoga from instructors send a discomforting feeling through my body not because I choose to feel that way or feel like the teacher is trying to offend me – my body just instantly feels that way.

Yoga is not the same as Hinduism. Similarly, not all Indians are Hindus, just as how all Indians do not practice yoga. If you are a yoga teacher as I am, please know that if we say things like, “In India, they…,” however you choose to end the statement, it is a pretty large attribute to assign to over a billion people who within the subcontinent share many likes and differences.  As an Indian American
child who was both battling with and learning about who I was alongside my sister in a sea of many who neither looked like us nor shared our culture, I made the same mass-assumptions about India and Indians as well.  India was far away. Understandably it was easy to generalize from little bits I came to hear about or see in media.  We are all capable of unintentional generalizations.  As an adult, I learn more and more each day and fill gaps and redirect myself. As humans, I’d say that is the best we can do: Educate ourselves to inform our practice of being individually and connected to others.

Mantras from Vedic texts were designed, as astutely pointed out by another dear Indian friend, with a rhythm and pronunciation system (among other things). They are by no means required for use in yoga, but many times, mantras might resonate or take you to a place of stillness or deep connection.  Where the connection might break is when Sanskrit words are strongly mispronounced or syllabic emphasis ignored, not due to mal-intent, but simply due to lack of awareness.  For others, disconnection from hearing a mantra may come from an association with religious practice that may or may not have been a welcoming or freeing experience. 

Predicting the experience of every practitioner upon hearing a mantra might not be possible, but what if we deeply study and truly “live” the Sanskrit mantras or chants if we do choose to use them – including developing as aligned pronunciation as possible? Imagine the spaciousness and welcome we might offer.  Imagine clearing away the misconception that yoga is “trendy,” rather than deeper than anything we can ever explain or understand with feeble minds.

This piece is not a cry to say “leave yoga only for Indians” or “stop teaching yoga wrong.” There is much being done right.  And yoga, I truly “know” in my heart, body, and soul is a way of being for everyone. It transforms my life in every moment. Mis-steps are suddenly opportunities for growth, and a blemish on my resume is suddenly revealed to me as my greatest teacher that shifted my course to feel an inner freedom I have never known before.

The benefits yoga that yoga can offer are therefore not solely stretching muscles in a colorful lycra wardrobe (though I like those things, too).  In my study and practice of yoga and in science research, it’s becoming clear that concepts like “samskaras” - energetic patterning and habits we create by living in autopilot that we can change with yoga practice – are similar to if not the same idea as the idea of neuroplasticity. The connections between the old world and new world, East and West, are inspiring and profound. They are yoga in and of themselves.

There is a beauty in watching the Yoga Sutras (Sutras = “threads”; don’t feel bad if you mistook this to be a negatively-lit “Kama Sutra” which has been incorrectly skewed to be a weird Indian sex book. It’s all about learning, right?) endure the test of time longer than any electronic device or fashion trend. I cannot remember where I first read it -maybe The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari? - but to call ancient yoga a “new age” trend is, well, anything but. :)

My dear friend and I hung up the phone after our conversation today, wondering what we can do to share our feelings on the matter without coming across as accusatory or whiny- the risks of speaking on a sensitive subject that you love and care about.

It was clear.  Start small, and don’t wait.  So here is my first post.

Summer, were you ever here?

The other day, I missed home.

In the midst of the emptied market corner of Union Square, I watched snow-filled clouds - the cold color of white-blue and purple – meld to cover the sky.  For an indefinite wintry spell, I’d miss the presence of the sun. I secretly mourned it inside my heart.

I grew up in Florida in a small Greek town called Tarpon Springs. There, cloudy days are also usually wet and warm. For a day or two, heavy-bellied grey clouds may unleash rains and winds might rustle or even thrash the tops of palm trees, but the sounds of thunder and claps of lightning are constant reminders of nature happening outside and around me.  The grass, I imagine, drinks up every splash happily. I feel safe and quenched inside. 

Cloudy winters are different.

Living in the northeast for twelve years has now come to be both effortless adoration and active “management.”  The ease comes from the everywhere beauty in the seasons I had always learned about in grade school: the way leaves literally “fall” in the fall (who knew?), tumbling across the street with every gust.  The way a silent winter frost brings a time for hibernation of both flower buds on resilient branches and for animals – humans, I include.  Freshly fallen snow sparkles like white diamonds as the city goes to sleep (but not without baking gooey chocolate chip cookies first). Then spring flirtatiously peeks out one day here and there toward the end of winter, tulip bulbs suddenly bursting into powerful stalks with color.  Cafes bring out their folding chairs and tables to their sidewalks and suddenly, dating is actually fun again.  The blurry summer heat seems to interrupt quickly - air conditioner sale signs taped on lampposts and PC Richards warehouses. Chilled bottles of water sold for $1 by random souls who wonderfully dis-heed the law can practically save your life.  I wait for the woman selling pre-cut spiced mango and cold orange slices in baggies. 

The burden comes from finally giving in, dropping to hands and knees to yank out the garbage bag full of heavy winter clothing wedged under the bed.  The 20 minutes of tango between yes and no before actually accepting going outside in the cold, another 20 minutes of dressing and lacing up heavy boots, looking for that damned other glove (where did I put it? Crap, did I drop it on the way home yesterday? Oh, no, there it is), checking the weather again on your smart phone after suiting up to see if you really need your wool hat, getting sidetracked by a new text message before the cold air hits your face.  Even in layered in cream and gloves, ashy and dry hands make you wonder: summer, were you ever here?

There, in Union Square, the snow clouds gathered outside of me and above me. For a moment, I felt them in my heart. I secretly worried if I would ever see the sun again.

I walked into the bodega, and the glass door jingled closed behind me.  My eyes dodged between the packets of Swiss Miss hot cocoa at the hot water station and refrigerated section where my eyes caught: “Freshly Squeezed Florida Orange Juice.”

I pulled off my gloves to open the carton and I took a swig of chilled juice. Eyes closed in that moment, I was transported home. The warm rains and sunrays just raised the oranges recently. I could feel the moist soil under my shoes and smell the citrus groves not far from my house.

Around me and above me, blue clouds.  Inside of me, sweet yellow summer.

Receiving, as much as Giving, is an act of Yoga.

Being in the "yogasphere," there's often a lot of hype or hearsay about what makes someone "yogic."

You've probably deduced that I love this topic. I get to read articles published by dear friends, peruse ancient texts (FYI "peruse" means to read carefully and not skim - who knew?), review research in science and education publications, and I get to practice alongside and under guidance of incredible yoga teachers and gurus.  But one of my favorite kinds of learning is one that unexpectedly sheds the light on all of the elements I choose to formally study: Talking to my parents.

My mom recently shared a story with me on a brief visit to Florida, where I grew up, as we drove back to our house from a yoga lecture. Her story offered a kind of purity and balance to what already was a positive experience of listening to a yogi's wise words.

As luck would have it, the timing of my pop-in home a few weeks ago was during a visit from Swami Muktananda, a man who travels nearly 9 months of the year through Europe and the U.S. before returning to India for three months of continued Kripalu yoga practice and planning.  My parents and I had just driven to a humble Hindu temple- a refurbished Tampa single-family home lined with red carpet and modest deities and paintings where the living room would have been- to listen to a lecture the Swami offered. He stood wearing a kurti dyed traditional turmeric orange at the door with a soft smile that made you feel peaceful - maybe more from his eyes than from his grin. People of Indian background were the majority (a rarity for me to experience since childhood which I've now learned to relish when it happens) though people from all races, ethnicities, and faiths were present. No exclusion. We were all there to gratefully receive his teachings.

Swami Muktananda's lecture and song hour offered insight into an inherent knowingness in all of us. How a cat can give birth to her kittens and know exactly how to care for them - no guidebook needed. Instinct is something all beings share. The swami's calling attention to this everyday knowledge allowed me to be mindful of the magic in Self. Of the profound intelligence in all Life.  The swami belted out mantras from the center of his chest, his eyes closed and happy as he swayed. It would seem that in his deeply committed offering of his own explorations of spirituality and free living through yoga and meditation were completely "self-less."  That this man, who is what I would truly call the definition of humble and pious, only gives without taking.  I thought to myself, "Man, this guy is truly yogic."

What what I now see as my half-understanding of the level of his "yogicity" or "yogic-ness" or whatever we want to call it was made more complete by a story my mother shared soon afterward as we drove through quiet, winding roads home later that night.

She told me about how on Swami Muktananda's visit the previous year, she and my dad had the privilege of driving the swami in our car to stay in one of our local friend's home for that night. On Swami Muktananda's travels for nine months, she explained, he is invited into homes to stay the night where he is given food, place to sleep, place to bathe.  When she and my dad had offered Swami Muktananda a ride to my "uncle's" (family friend's) house, he simply and graciously accepted without fuss or strangulated thank yous. When he stayed in my uncle's home and sat for dinner and breakfasts prepared for him by someone he had just met, he openly and graciously received it.

We often imagine that it is "un-yogic" to receive. That it is "un-yogic" to rely on others' for support and to allow us to stay lifted.  But what is clear from my mother's story after having viewed Swami Muktananda as only a noble giver of lectures is that the act of receiving - the art of receiving - is equally as important as giving.

We stand as individuals, yes, but we also trust and rely on one another as a collective. There is no shame in accepting when we offer in other ways.  And when we start to feel off-balance (maybe without spreadsheet evidence but more just a feeling of giving or receiving out of balance -I know you've felt it!) - to me, being yogic means simply paying attention to that.  It is a more profound and a higher level of trust than immediate 1-1 exchange of "I scratch your back, you scratch mine."  It is a trust in the Wholeness of all that is- that what we are putting out there is being received, and that what we are receiving may not look or feel exactly like what we are giving, but it is there for receiving.

We can all rest and evolve in being yogic. It is not reserved only for those who wear turmeric shirts or for those who own a purple yoga mat.  Yoga is Unity. Yoga is All. Reception is the balance to Giving. Giving is the balance to Reception.

We, Individually, make up a beautiful, intended Collective yogasphere.

Love Letter to Us.

I don’t know if this is coming from the heat outside bringing out the Shakti energy in me, or perhaps the conversations I’ve lately been having with my sister and sisterfriends, but man- I have just got to proclaim from the highest tops of the internet mountain that we, we Women, we are AWESOME.  If you were sitting next to me, too, you’d see my scrunched brow and my pursed lips as I truly get right now in this moment just how freaking awesome we are.  (Note that this is not a comment toward or against others who may not be women, nor is it to generalize that all women share the qualities that I just need to praise – well, maybe a little, ha- this is really just a celebration and yes, I have just got to say it again, baby: We Women are AWESOME).

When we’re in the midst of a real rush of changing hormones with real aches in our body, we carry backpacks and bags and boxes and sometimes even children, and we multitask to swiftly pay our bills on the phone at the same time.  We recognize the important work that must be done to better ourselves and better the world, and we do that work as mothers, as daughters, as sisters, girlfriends, wives, aunts, cousins, as students, as teachers, as healers, as business workers or owners or officers or writers or dramatists or painters or cleaners or as friends or countless other roles.  We make moves for ourselves and we make moves for others.  We gather together to get coats of Essie polish on our nails to celebrate each other’s birthday or marriage or new degree.  If someone says something hurtful to us or ignores us, we are incredible enough to think in ourselves, “Was there something in this that I could have done to make this person feel badly first?”  And then we are awesome enough to hear ourselves, pause, and say to ourselves in reflection, “I should really pay attention to when I unnecessarily impose blame or guilt on myself because I want to be as strong and good of a human and woman as I can be.”  When we have a problem with a friend, we are considerate enough to call another friend to ask her or him to listen and hear us and tell us if we did the right or wrong thing and ask them what they think could make it better.  Sometimes, we are awesome enough to call on many friends about the same matter of concern over and over again because, well, we care just that much, ha…;) We muster up the vulnerability to say sorry when we feel we were wrong.  When we feel hurt, we let the tears roll down our face or let the heat of anger build within us quietly and sometimes we cave and fall.  And we bravely allow it.  We hear its valuable communication to us. And then, after some undefined time that feels right to our individual, we see the power within the experience and use it to resolve.  We mull over words we should or should not say because it stems from a pure place of wanting to help others feel comfortable and feel safe because we respect what others may be experiencing.  We blurt out honest words at other times because we respect what others may need to hear.  We receive each others’ pain through a text message or voicemail and offer to share a glass of wine or bowls of ice cream in pajamas right away. 

We plan gatherings and avoid gatherings and we lead and we sit back and we don’t underestimate the power of a silent but comforting touch. We sometimes, in a state of overwhelming expression of emotion or in a state of overwhelming quiet, really just need a hug or space to watch Gilmore Girls or a bite to eat, and I find that simplicity masked in complexity just beautiful.  And we are not afraid to acknowledge the danger of generalizations that we feel could limit humanity’s collective view on how we as part of one large subgroup and may also operate differently and beautifully as individuals, but in doing so we also honor the golden intention behind someone’s large statements and proclamations of love :).

With you, dear women of all places and backgrounds and ways of being, dear one-day-will-grow-up-to-be-women (see brilliance of 6-year-old poet in photo I happened to pass by this morning), dear Self, 

I am in so Love with Us.

Xo,

Rina

"Current" A creative essay by Rina Deshpande

I'd like to give a special thanks to Nancy Sommers and all fellows and peers of T210M, HGSE for giving me inspiration, tools, and deadlines to ponder life through essay.  This essay is dedicated to my Lalla Mausi, whom I love very much.

Current

By Rina Deshpande

            I’m not sure how or why it began – maybe we were looking to pass the time while the power was out, or maybe I just happened to ask what was behind her metal armoire doors.  One by one, my great aunt Lalla shared the meaning behind each of her many saris, so abundant in number that she admitted in giggles she may never be able to wear them all.  Her words and movements flowed like a dance: pulling out one sari from the brilliant stack of hundreds, narrating the story as she unfolded and revealed its unique pattern, then refolding and replacing it before moving onto the next.  Like I was being walked through an album of textiles and colors.  Thin silks. Thick silks.  Rayons.  Cottons. Polyesters.  Peacock blues.  Hot pinks. Forest greens. Mustard yellows. Chocolate browns.  Light golds. Dark golds.  Daisy prints.  Paisleys. Solids.  Stripes.  Stars.  Each sari was a gift.  Each sari, an unchanging memory from her life.

            I can’t help but wonder if my great aunt made these stories up, but the details of each sari giver, occasion, time of day, and location all wove together so seamlessly for yards and yards that it’s quite possible every thread she said was true.  Perhaps, to her, it was not accuracy that mattered.

            I am thinking of her now after just hanging up with my unnervingly calm mother, wondering why I did not call my Lalla Mausi when my mind had told me to. 

            Two years ago, I am sitting on the edge of my great aunt’s cot like I’ve done on every visit to her Bangalore bungalow for the last thirty years.  Un-poised and relaxed in my Gap jeans and t-shirt, my legs dangle off of the wire frame like a teenager’s.  Herds of cars honk and packs of stray dogs bark on the dusty road outside.  The hollow sound of the ticking clock echoes on the bare walls – the “current” has stopped as it frequently does with no warning.  We patiently wait around for the electric buzz to return and revive the tube lights.

            Every five to seven years that I have visited my great aunt Lalitha - my Lalla Mausi - I’ve seen snapshots of a rapidly changing India.  Where her cement bungalow once rested quietly on a hill of red earth and bowing trees, now swarm bustling students to IT school and Tata cars ramming horns to fight for parking.   The population in the city of Bangalore has tripled from 3 million in 1982 to nearly 9 million people in 2013.  Lalla’s peach and red bungalow once seemed so tall and rooted on that dirt hill.  Over time, it has shrunken away from the main road, nearly forgotten in all of the change. 

            For now, we are inside of her home.  And on the inside, Lalla’s bungalow feels almost exactly the same.  Red tinted cement floors cool my bare feet in the summer heat.  Two humble ground level bedrooms each offer a cozy cot and armoire. Framed photos of my mother, sister, father and me from Disney World 1988 to high school and college graduations line the old wooden shelves.  I wince at the sight my bushy eyebrows in my blue graduation cap and gown.  Perhaps getting older comes with some benefits, I laugh to myself, like learning to have your eyebrows threaded.  Multiple horns bleep outside the window like angry sheep, sending the dogs into a fit.

            “Seems like it is even more chaotic out there than last time,” I am surprised by the grown-up nature of my own comment.

            “Mm,” my great aunt affirms with a glum nod from side to side.  “Happening so fast, no?  What to do?” she laments, lifting her hands and eyes toward the sky.  I share her frown. She immediately looks to console my concern like a grandmother to her grandchild, gently grasping her wrinkled brown fingers under my chin and smiling.  I close my eyes and hold onto the feeling of her cradle. 

            I do not want to forget her.  I do not want to be forgotten.

            My eyes magnetize to the emerald green silk with a hot pink band nestled in the colorful collection of her armoire.  I ask for her to please, pretty please pull that one out next.  We are two hours without power, and she has gone through nearly twenty saris. I am enjoying her performance and too comfortable squeezing my adult bottom into my booster seat in the audience.  Lalla Mausi giggles at my invitation for encore, and brimming with memories she reaches for the sari of my choice and starts to unfold. 

            “Ah, this was gifted to me by Shreshta at her daughter’s engagement in Delhi in May 1993 – do you recollect meeting Shreshta, Rina?  Vahini’s sister’s husband’s cousin.  You don’t remember?”  I smirk, having no idea to whom she refers.  I let her continue.  Right now there is no current.  Right now, we are right here.

            With every name she assigns to each sari, she weaves her loom aloud.  Saris from neighbors, casual acquaintances, brides and grooms, best friends, sisters, brothers, and one collectively from my mother, father, sister, and me.  I see a softness and security in her eyes as she narrates the latter. 

            “You only selected this sari for me,” she laughs as I ask who gave it to her.  “You were small.”  I admit that I do not remember, but I joke that I have pretty good taste.  Each strand in the nine yards of burgundy dyed silk is as sturdy and thick as wire.  As she opens the pallu tail end that drapes over the shoulder, she reveals an intricate pattern of elephants woven from what looks like pure golden thread.  I tell her I like this sari the best.  She touches my cheek and says that it is her favorite, too.

            Twenty-five years prior, I would draw my great aunt’s portrait on a wrinkled notebook page with markers: black braid, wire spectacles, sari pallu draped over her shoulder, and red bindi on her wide-ruled forehead.  I would present my wobbly artwork to her, and she would immediately hang it up on her metal armoire.  On this day - twenty-five years later - as we close the armoire doors to her sari album, I chuckle to see the portrait still remains displayed under the same round magnet.  To me, she still looks just the same.  I touch the dimming paper and try hard to remember my little hands gripping the marker in artist’s concentration.  My memory of myself as a child is dimmer than before.  Perhaps my Lalla Mausi still sees it clearly.  Perhaps it is through one another that we remain unchanging.

            The sound of buzzing zips through the walls of the room.   The lights flicker back on.  

            “Current,” she says. 

            The lights in my Cambridge apartment seem to buzz louder than usual.  I pick up my cell phone and dial the 800 number my mother gave me, entering India country code, Karnataka state code, and phone number for my Lalla’s Mausi’s room at the hospital.  She picks up.

            For this moment, the current is paused.

           

            

Socks on a Radiator

Socks on a toasty radiator
Make my feet feel great-iator
Icy toes now happy clams
Fruit-of-loom socks melt to jam.

Maybe work can wait-iator
Think I'll sleep in late-iator.

Zero to Seventeen in 60 Seconds

The other night, I flew back to Boston from a last-minute trip.  My eyes had the dusty feeling of wanting to close; it was well past anyone's EST bedtime.  I was in one of the very last seats to de-board the plane, and as the last few of us got ready to leave we noticed that a few stray dollars and a plastic bag lay crumpled on a seat ahead of us. Since no one had claimed it, I offered to take it up to a flight attendant.

Of course this happened to be the first time in history that no flight attendant was at the front of the plane, so I waited at the gate in the dim airport for an attendant with the roughly seven dollars worth of bills and change in hand.  Five minutes. No attendant.  Drowsy eyeball dust said it was time to leave.

The money wasn't mine and I felt weird about having it.  Lord knows I could spend it on lattes, but I didn't "need" it.  So I waited to have a chance to give it away.  Funny how soon that chance came.

As a few sleepy travelers waited for the metro (the "T" here in Cambridge), a very vocal man came onto the platform in obvious need of medical care for exposed chronic sores on his legs.  I've seen my fair share of impoverished people in New York City and India, but this was the first time in my life I had ever seen a homeless person crying.  "There's a bus to an HIV facility leaving in a few minutes, and I need $8 to get there. Please. They'll give me a bed for three days.  They'll treat me for free. But I need to get there and I have no money, and if I don't get there I lose my bed." At that time of night, I decided to put my skeptic mind to rest and I looked down at the money in my plastic bag.

I walked over, and started to reach out my bag of seven dollars, feeling a little bad that it was a buck short.  What was so freaking awesome was at the very same moment, another woman on the other side of the platform walked over, opening her wallet.

"Here," we both unexpectedly said in chorus to the man in front of us, me holding out seven of someone else's money and she holding out ten of her own.

We and the rest of the metro platform were left without words.  His eyes spoke volumes, though.

"Thank you. Oh my God. What? Thank you. Thank you so much," he finally said and took what we offered- albeit small, a momentary abundance- and darted back up the stairs, turning back every few leaps to say thank you at us.  My head hoped that he was heading for an actual bus ready depart. But my heart didn't and still doesn't care.

Lady-who-gave-away-her-ten-dollar-bill, wherever you are. That was awesome.  High five.