To get caught up in our own heads and hearts is inevitable, as we exist in this world as particular beings. And truthfully, honoring that individuality is what empowers us to move out into the world, to create change and spread love in ways that only we can.
Read moreMaking Meaning
The following post was written by Liz Beres, a NYC-based dancer; dance teacher; and yoga teacher, certified by The Perri Institute for Mind and Body. Liz currently teaches yoga privately and at various gyms, including that of the Federal Reserve Bank of NY through Plus One. She is continually intrigued by and appreciative of the power of mind/body practices, and is grateful for the chance to share her musings on MindBodyBrew’s digital platform.
"Life is not inherently meaningful. We make meaning happen through the attention and care we express through our actions." - Donna Farhi, from "Yoga Mind, Body and Spirit: A Return to Wholeness"
That first sentence stopped me in my tracks the first time I read it. I found myself reading it through again, and again, and again, pouring over the words in an effort to gain some hold over them. I couldn’t get beyond the idea that our lives—at their very base—are utterly blank canvases. But as I began to consider the trajectory of a life—from infant to toddler on up—the varied and deep layering of intention and purpose in a life slowly struck me.
Having been dealt a largely fresh slate from the universe after a summer of bold decisions and equally weighted repercussions, I was met this fall with an opportunity to take action in such ways that could renew or redirect the steps along my life story. I knew that I wanted to commit to moving forward with raw candor, and I knew too that I endeavored to make and follow through with choices that lay outside my comfort zone. But to decipher what all this meant—how I could successfully meet my truest self—required much reflection, and through that consideration, an intense stripping down of layers that no longer served me. Our choices so expressively seal our identity, but are those choices ones we want to reinforce, or must they shift to meet us at our present?
For whatever reason, I imagined myself landing at a point where I was clear and streamlined in a certain sense; contradictions would fall away, and I’d be standing there so solidly as this one being. It hasn’t happened. In fact, I’ve realized how unrealistic such a vision is, for we all exist as such complex creatures, full of disparities that are no less valid or true in spite of their variety. I’d walked the earth for years attempting to fully embody my differing roles in whatever environment I found myself in; dancer, teacher, student wasn’t even the tip of it. Was I a contemporary dancer or a musical theater performer? A dance teacher? A yoga teacher? A creator? A collaborator? The web of it all spun out for miles.
I’m discovering that trying to distinguish between all these pieces of ourselves becomes complicated and unnecessary when all these diverse parts of us already coexist; we are blended beings, rich and full of nuance. Our lives are not homogenous events, as Donna Farhi so poignantly notes. Life changes, and we too must adapt and change along with it.
So I’m drawn back to this question, or call to action: if our lives are not meaningful in and of themselves, how will we give them meaning? What meaning do we want to fill our stories with? What meaning do we want to fill our stories with in this present moment?
With so much to tackle and pursue all at once, it seemingly becomes necessary to parse through all that surrounds us in order to choose and follow what is most valuable to our growth at a given time. I would use the word ‘prioritize’ to distinguish this act, but prioritizing sounds too black and white and too logical when such choices to follow certain goals over others emerge, I imagine, most sincerely from intuition and the depths of our souls. And in any case, regardless of what we do choose to pursue, we must recognize that our paths usually are not linear ones. The roads we set out on inevitably wind through experiences we couldn’t have even envisioned, and numerous forks in the road present themselves, or even force themselves, upon us.
One of the ethical principles of Yoga’s eight-limbed path is particularly relevant in considering these matters: aparigraha, or non-attachment. As much as we habitually seek out certainty and security, one unavoidable fact of our human existence is that impermanence permeates our lives. Impermanence serves as our one constant. Trying to hoard what we have only leads to suffering, as those people or objects or ideas will, in time, fade, or in some situations even vanish.
So then, how are we to acquire meaning if such uncertain transience exists as a base of our lives? I would extend the hope that we still plant seeds of growth in whatever arenas we aim to nurture, but perhaps as we harvest those same seeds, we can assess what is honestly in front of us, so as to recognize and interact with the reality that has presented itself to us, rather than the dream that lay in the backs of our minds or hearts. Because while we drive so much of what occurs in our day-to-day lives, there are countless variables that shift our actions and thoughts into unpredictable realms—and with all of that comes, I would suggest, even more meaning than we could have achieved on our own. I believe that it is that stark openness to our communities—those that are tangible and those that are less so—that enables us to transcend what superficial steps we take through our day and fills us with such a sense of connection and comprehension as to where we are in each moment.
Getting the chance to meet so many new people over the course of the summer embedded within me a desire to commune with strangers (in the safest of ways, Mom!). I have attempted to actually look at people I pass by and toss out a soft smile or converse with those who are serving me or surrounding me when it feels appropriate. What has been amazing in this experiment is the sense of intimacy and ease that has suddenly emerged in environments that otherwise had felt cold or purposeless. From this seed that I planted upon my return from time in a smaller town with a tightly bound community of friends and colleagues has come more curiosity and openness on my part, and the potential for even more growth in my interactions with those I don’t know. It has built meaning in my life, and simultaneously expanded my comprehension of the rich interconnectedness of our individual paths. It has reminded me too of how significantly our moods and mindsets can shift from acting upon one outwardly small but specific intention. There are so many choices to be molded, so many possibilities to choose from and subsequently learn from.
Just the other day, a friend of mine suggested that once she leaves New York City, she hopes to live an entirely different life—one set in a rural locale, where she can live not by a clock but by the ever-changing light of day and night, where she can focus less on survival and more on filling the artistic, intellectual, and spiritual potential that lives within her. Such a beautiful vision that I too similarly share. So many other layers of meaning that could come into being, a largely new iteration of a life’s story.
Dreaming of the future is a beautiful practice that serves to inspire and egg us on towards our utter fulfillment, but in light of all these thoughts—and to not get ahead of ourselves—what is it that we, in this very moment, aspire to pursue? What seeds can we plant to set such growth in motion, and how can we then step back, even as we nourish the seeds, to witness what actually emerges? As much as we seek to make meaning out of life, if we could be more present, giving more attention and care to what lives right in front of us, could we derive whole other layers of meaning and depth that we previously could not have conceived possible? Perhaps ‘making meaning’ in our lives need not be such an active endeavor; meaning will materialize effortlessly, if only we are brave and open enough to meet it in its truest forms.
- Liz Beres
Imperfect Colors
The following post was written by Liz Beres, a NYC-based dancer; dance teacher; and yoga teacher, certified by The Perri Institute for Mind and Body. Liz currently teaches yoga privately and at various gyms, including that of the Federal Reserve Bank of NY through Plus One. She is continually intrigued by and appreciative of the power of mind/body practices, and is grateful for the chance to share her musings on MindBodyBrew’s digital platform.
I was born a perfectionist. Or so I think. From a very early age, I was seeking the approval of authoritative figures in my life--my parents, my teachers, my friends’ parents. It’s not to say I couldn’t or wouldn’t think for myself; since so much of my childhood was spent outdoors in the realm of my imagination and those of my brothers and friends, relatively few tangible bounds actually existed in terms of what we could or could not do. But in my mind, boundaries of right and wrong began to build very early on, based on the positive or negative feedback I received from the influential adults in my life--and because I didn’t want to create conflict or pain for them or for me, I attempted to act in ways that mitigated the possibility of struggle.
Now, how effective this strategy was certainly could be debated. How conscious I was of its hold over me undoubtedly ebbed and flowed throughout my younger years. Clearly we as humans cannot be perfect; over the course of our lives, we fall innumerable times from our lofty goals of who we want to be and how we want to make that happen. To consider these falls failures maybe seems harsh, but perfectionism divides the world into black and white entities, of right and wrong and good and bad, as determined by that individual and his or her life experience. I’m no academic expert on perfectionism, but as one who is slowly dragging herself out of the throes of perfectionism in a desperate attempt to come to terms with our inherent human imperfection, the contemplation of ‘failure’ has become imperative. My view of the notion of failure has shifted drastically--from seeing it as insurmountable to, now, simply as a chance to persevere.
If a stark division of color exists in a perfectionist’s world, what then truly exists in our imperfect world? I would imagine that diversity endures, that the potential for harmony survives alongside the promise of discord. In today’s world, diversity issues are hot topics of discussion--diversity in regards to race, gender, religious beliefs…the list goes on and on. But how often do we speak of the diversity that lives in each and every one of us? Family, friends, and colleagues may be able to define us by certain traits, but if they were to complete such an exercise, would they readily recognize or identify the contradictions that exist in our words and actions and general ways of being in the world? At a younger age, I would have avoided looking at those uglier bits of myself, but recently, in witnessing those rough edges more frequently, I’ve come to an abrupt halt in my desire for denial, and instead, have emerged amidst the conflicts I’m facing with a burning desire to be real. I’ve realized that no matter how hard we try, we inevitably will be ugly and beautiful all at once; we may be able to compartmentalize our disparate pieces in differing settings or moments, but it’s all of these pieces that make us whole at the end of the day.
In my more harrowing moments as of late, I’ve yearned to run away. If I’ve had the time to do just that, I’ve done it; ran until my headspace felt cleared of its mess; ran until my heart raced from the sheer force of my body piercing through space, and less so from the banging of my pained heart against its cage. As we travel through life, each of us has different guides--the head, the heart, the gut, or more than likely, an alternating combination of these. When answers are sought, clarity seems necessary, but to discover logic amidst complex challenges becomes nearly impossible. How can we gain some grasp of the situation? How can we move forward even as we’re being knocked over by waves that continue to crash in?
In his Yoga Sutras, Patanjali defined yoga as a cessation of the fluctuations of the mind. I would argue too that if we believe yoga to be capable of aiding us in calming our minds, that we too could enlist this practice in quieting our chaotic hearts. But what does this sutra suggest, then? I love that in searching for the definition of cessation, I came across this: ‘a temporary or complete stopping’. Yoga does not disable our minds or our hearts; it does not cast away our capacity to be chaotic, in thought and feeling and deed. Rather, it offers us a chance to pause, to stop for a moment or more, to decipher where it is we are. It is in that suspended place--between what has been and what could be--that we can gather all the distinct bits of ourselves and endeavor to move forward with the whole of our being in mind. In sitting at the bottom of a sea of swirling thoughts, emotions, and events, we probably will feel the pressure of the water engulfing us--and we may still fear and be in danger of being tipped over by a rush of emotion or circumstance. But if we can reach a moment of stillness, could we rediscover our roots from which we want to grow, from which we hope to grow and will try to grow?
A passage from Haruki Murakami’s “Kafka on the Shore” fell into my path the other day:
Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about.
I am reminded that because these storms brew within us, we must take responsibility for them and face them head on. And we must comprehend and accept that imperfect conditions especially shove us into change. We may feel empowered, or we may feel defeated. But to lose control of our ideal presents us with an opportunity to discover a new way, a middle path through the chaos, through the fluctuations. We must give over our hope for safety in an effort to move forward, through the joy that lives next door to the pain. The murky road could lead to even foggier fields. The storm will catch up to us if we run. If we can discover our yoga--whether that’s time on the mat or the cushion, or going for a run, or moving through the rooms of a museum--we hopefully can grant ourselves a moment of pause to collect ourselves as best we can, make a decision, and move forward from there.
My fallibility has paraded its beautifully ugly head so many times over the course of the last few months. But in showing up so often, it’s becoming less scary and more empowering, for it is serving as a reminder that while we may ‘fail’, while we may not win over every situation we meet, we can try again. Our opportunities to put in effort will never cease to exist. The opportunities may transform, but unless we restrain ourselves, we always can stand up to face the moment.
I no longer believe in perfection. But I do hold out hope that from hideous imperfection can come vast amounts of beauty, and growth that we’d never imagined we’d meet.
-Liz Beres