Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: The sound of compassion

Today was one of those days when my students healed me.

I sort of limped into my teaching week yesterday, a bit drained by some experiences in my personal life. And today, I felt so disconnected and unable that I thought perhaps I should cancel my classes.

But what yoga teaches me is to show up. 

So, I showed up. And my Beth Wright students were utterly lovely. By the end of class, I felt more beautiful and less shredded. Often times teaching is like getting a hug from someone who makes you feel really good, and this class was like that for me.

Later, still feeling a bit wobbly, I prepared for my evening class, fully expecting it to be empty. It was raining and no one (usually) comes to yoga when it rains. But as our start time approached, my students streamed in the door until we were packed-to-overflowing.

The theme for our class tonight was The Sound of Compassion. I taught my students the mantra Om Mani Padme Hum for the first time. I explained that while the literal meaning of this mantra is about beholding the beauty of a lotus, the fuller meaning—the deeper yoga wisdom—is about summoning the power of compassion. These words are like the abra cadabra of compassion, I told them. When you speak them, or even better, when you chant them, you can make compassion appear seemingly out of nowhere. When you chant Om Mani Padme Hum, you become a beacon of light, and you call toward you all of the compassion that comes from our Oneness, the compassion of our Source, the compassion that is always all around us if we just tune in.

Whether you believe in the cycles of the sun and the moon or in a form of divinity—or both, or something else--this compassion exists between us as beings; it is in the breath that we share with the trees and with the ocean and with one another. And when we chant Om Mani Padme Hum, we are vibrating with the energy that is that compassion. We can call it to us when we are in need; we can send it out from us when others need it, too.

When I stood in the rain early Monday morning, gazing out at the stark gray expanse of the bay, waiting for my turn to search for the body of a man who had jumped from the bridge, it was this magic that I called on. When I felt a tidal wave of grief looming up before me, I chanted softly from beneath my firefighter’s helmet, Om Mani Padme Hum. When the high-pitched twang of fear plucked discordant inside me, I chanted. Om Mani Padme Hum. I said the magic words over and over. The rain beat down, the recovery boats crisscrossed the heartless bay, and I chanted very quietly until I felt like a lighthouse on that shore. And when the light filled me up, I sent it out—out to that man’s family, out to that man’s spirit, out to everyone who was looking for him, and out to the ones who would find him.

Today, I came to my teaching uncertain that I had anything to offer. But by the time our evening class was under way, I felt much more myself. Just the happy presence of all those students helped my heart to get its bearings.

Because it had served me so well as a first-responder on Monday, I taught my students The Sound of Compassion. We chanted it slowly at first. And then we tried the rapid-fire version. As we began the first round of rapid chanting, I heard one of my students in the back begin to giggle at himself. He was trying mightily to chant om-mani-padme-hum really fast, as I had instructed, but he got tongue-tied and he started to laugh. I felt the moment when I might be able to hold true to my neutral teacher space and sing us all past the laughing that was about to erupt, but this was no tidal wave of grief to be fended off, so that I might serve in a time of crisis; this was the opposite of that. This was a giant wave of happiness, about to crest, and when it did, I jumped on. Just as I said “yes” to getting into the rescue boat on Monday, I said “yes” to hopping on that raft of laughter. The whole class and I stopped calling compassion, and for a moment, we just laughed. We surfed on a wave of giggles. Every tired face was alight. Every mouth turned up into a smile. I let all my inner tension, all the holding on and holding up, I let it break and wash over me. What could be more compassionate than that?

Om Mani Padme Hum is the abra cadabra of compassion. It is the magic words. It will always bring you compassion, if you ask. It will bring you quiet strength, when that is the form of compassion that you need; and it will bring you a room full of people to laugh with, when that is the form of compassion that you need.

*Om Mani Padme Hum*

Three of these students (but none of these donkeys) were with me tonight, chanting and giggling, too.

Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: Out on the water

What's most amazing to me about the experience of becoming a first-responder is how I am much more able to find my courage in service to others.

I don't like boats, uncontained water, or, frankly, dead bodies--all three frighten my civilian self--but I did not hesitate this morning when I was asked to jump into a little rescue boat in the pouring rain on very little sleep, with no food, and what felt like not enough coffee, to troll all around the bay in choppy, cold, DEEP water looking for a body that would likely be grisly, it having traveled all the way down to the harsh surface of the water from the bridge so high above.

When I say I don’t like boats, I mean, I really, really don’t like boats. I once got seasick on an aircraft carrier—at port. That’s practically like getting seasick on land. I get a panicky feeling sometimes if you just say the word boat to me. I get all scared that you’re going to try and make me go on one.

I don’t want to go on one.

I also, by the way, generally can’t wear necklaces or turtlenecks because I feel like I’m being hanged—I can’t even wear halter-tops. I get all panicky and break out in a sweat and can’t breathe properly. Perhaps I was hanged in a previous life…and taken to my hanging in a boat. I don’t know. But that fear is deep and it is real, my friends. It is a deep, down visceral fear.

Did I mention I’m also not a morning person? And I’m terrified of bridges?

But this morning, having jumped out of bed at 5:55 a.m. to answer the call, when I was faced with the prospect of getting into a little inflatable rescue boat so I could zoom out into the Bay to look for the body of a man who had jumped from a really high bridge, I said “Yes.”

I didn’t have to. I’m a volunteer. I can stay home and sleep. I can say no to boats.

But when I was asked by an officer I trust, “Do you want to go out in the boat?” my answer was, “Yes.”

Because it was pouring down rain, and because the water in the Bucksport Bay is pretty damned cold, step one was to put on a gigantic and ill-fitting neoprene wet suit that made my hands and feet as dexterous as penguin flippers and which, due to being approximately six sizes too big, rode up at the zipper and pressed against my throat like two thumbs on my larynx. I was inside this choking, awkward contraption, about to go look around in uncontained water under a bridge for a dead body and I still got into that boat. And not because I thought I had to. I did it because I wanted to. I did it because when I was asked, my answer was honest-and-true, “Yes.”

The captain of our little craft—who makes his living on lobster boats--asked me once we were under way if I liked boats. “No,” I said. "I do not like boats."

I had only two questions. The first I knew the answer to, and I asked it lightly: “If I get sick, I should lean over the side, right? Not throw up in the boat?” 

The second question was not so light: “What was he wearing?”

I got the answer. And then I started to look.

When I teach yoga, there is a magic that runs through me. All my fear and doubt wash away, and I know how to help, I know what to do and say. Now matter how sick, tired, angry or frightened I might be when I walk in the door to a class, when I “step into” my teaching space, everything is calm and full of grace. (Currently, and not coincidentally, my literal teaching space, by the way, is the Orland Fire Department.) Even if my body is sick or tired, when I "become" a yoga teacher, I get strong and able. I know it may sound remarkable, but I have this same feeling when I am at a scene.

Today, I faced some of my worst fears all at once in service of this man who took his own life last night. And I swear to every god and goddess I know that I felt not one lick of fear or doubt about any of it.

I did feel really sad for a few minutes when I first arrived, staring out across that gray water and knowing what had occurred. But I am a yogi—and a first-responder—so I breathed, and I muttered soothing Sanskrit things from under my helmet. And eventually, I felt calm, centered, and totally present.

I trust my firefighters and I trust myself to show up and to listen, in the same way I trust myself to show up and listen when I teach.

Today was kind of awful. And sadly, I expect it’s not the last time I’ll get that call. Someone else found the body, after our team had left for the day. The family has closure. I still feel nauseous and tired.

And--yes--I would do it again in a heartbeat.

[If you struggle with suicidal depression, please put this number into your phone (1-800-784-2433). It’s the National Hopeline and there will always, always, always be someone there who wants to talk to you. It may not feel like it right now, but there are people who care enough about you and your loved ones to comb the deep and scary waters for your body, if you jump. Please give us the opportunity to care for you while you are still with us by NOT asking us to do that; make this phone call instead.]

Teaching yoga at the Orland Fire Department.

Tales from Rural Maine: Showing Up

When I applied to join the Orland Fire Department in April, the thing I said I felt I could offer, apart from computer skills and a knack for driving, was the ability to give comfort in a time of crisis. I imagined that for a person who was watching their house burn, or for someone who was shaken up by a car accident, or who was standing on the shore hoping their kids got safely rescued from a capsized boat, that having someone calm and caring to pay attention to them might be of some use. 

It was a remarkable gift that I was voted into the Department less than 48 hours before my best friend from all the way back to fifth grade found herself standing on the edge of her property watching acres and acres of her land burn, while more than 60 firefighters from five towns swarmed across those burning acres, and more than half a dozen fire engines clogged her road, lights flashing, and a forest service helicopter shuttled giant buckets of water back and forth over her head.

My friend is a tough cookie. But, I saw her standing there watching it all, a little ashen-faced, and I asked permission to leave the water supply station so that I could go and talk to her. The Chief said "Yes, just stay where I can see you," so I walked up to my old friend, flanked by her brother-in-law and her teenaged nephew, and when she realized it was me inside that turnout gear, her jaw dropped lower than that helo’s bucket. I don't know if anyone has ever been so glad to see me in my life. It turns out that she had no idea I’d joined the department, and the first words out of her mouth were, “You’re a firefighter??!!” And her second words were, “I’m SO glad to see you!”

She told me later that it really helped, that simple experience of seeing a smiling, friendly face in the midst of all that stress and unfamiliar commotion. “I don’t know any of these people…” she said. Somehow, just knowing one person amongst the dozens, knowing she had a friend--a friend in  firefighting gear, no less--took the edge off. Things started to seem okay. And thanks to all those firefighters and the rangers, things really were okay. By the time darkness fell, the fire was contained. My friend's house, her husband, all their buildings and pets and people—all were safe and sound.

It will take a while before I have the skills and training to pump water on my own or legally drive fire trucks or to pry someone out of a car with the Jaws of Life. I’m working on it. And I’m never going to be the girl on the roof with a chainsaw. But on Day 1, I was able to make a difference, just because I showed up. I stayed calm and quiet. I went where I was supposed to. I paid attention. And I cared how people were feeling. 

I've often been told in my life that I'm too sensitive, but I've finally learned to believe them less and believe myself more. There are ways to use sensitivity as a strength. And in my opinion, joining an all-volunteer fire department is one of them.