Dog and pony show, Deformation

During practice this morning, I kept thinking of my previous post, and how there is a perspective that includes a little more compassion.

I recalled the feeling of being stripped of all of my internalized “personal stuff” at a zen retreat. Of just BEING there. I felt bereft.

After all, we usually drag our pasts along with us all the time (even if that past is as recent as five seconds or five minutes ago). To suddenly be “in the moment,” where none of that stuff matters is rather disorienting. There are all the things we go around thinking about ourselves: “But wait! I was a valedictorian!” “I make lots of money at my job.” “I have a cool car.” “My hair is spectacular.” “Kapotasana was always easy for me.” “I love my family.”

“I am this.” “I am that.” Whatever it might be.

“My parents were loving and supportive.” “I was abused.” “My favorite color is red.”

None of that matters. Not in the present moment.

That can be kind of freaky. The story of who we are and how we came to this present moment can seem so compelling, so relevant to the present moment. But that’s an illusion. An illusion that can be undone by zen, and by psychoanalysis, and by — I suspect — any contemplative practice. The interesting thing about psychoanalysis is that you tell your stories over and over, out loud, and eventually come to see them as selected narratives. Deeply repetitive stories you tell yourself about yourself. A whole suitcase full of stories you carry around. In my own case, I eventually came to think of all of it as “The Karen Show,” the dog and pony show of who and what I am. The stuff I’d want the zen master to see when I went into the room to answer my koan; the stuff I’d want the Ashtanga teacher to see when he was observing my practice.

The stuff everyone wants everyone else to see and acknowledge in a class, or at a party, or in a meeting. I’m not sure if we use it as camouflage or as a security blanket. Maybe it’s just a habit.

Regardless, none of that stuff matters.

And, as I noted in the previous post, Matthew Sweeney keeps it out of his classroom.

***

Recalled something more from the workshop, something I’ve been doing, but didn’t note here on the blog. He suggested we switch off on which leg crosses over first in padmasana (i.e., start with left leg some of the time). It’s an utterly freaky feeling, and my first thought, looking at my right knee as it jutted up into the air at a weird angle, was, “Three years of Ashtanga, and all I’ve done is deform myself!”