Paying the Boatman

Why would you choose to measure your life by endings when all the experience, the felt sense of being alive, is in the journey?

By Phillip Moffitt

There is another reaction to injuries that yogis who don't make wise distinctions between symptoms and underlying conditions often have, and this one drives yoga teachers to distraction. A yoga student will come to class and tell the teacher she has such-and-such an injury and therefore she does not do x, y, and z poses. End of discussion. The yogi is constructing her identity around what is merely a symptom, making it into a permanent unchanging Self. What's so frustrating for the teacher is that the student has no interest in exploring the underlying conditions to see if it is possible to bring about change. The essence of hatha yoga is the exploration and evolution of the body. How ironic that a student would choose to do yoga and yet not really be open to the yoga. Deep exploration of the condition can be slower and more frustrating than just trying to get rid of the symptom, but it can also be a far more meaningful and enduring experience because it requires that you come into contact with your Self, and from this contact wisdom grows.

Caring vs. Attachment

Making wise distinctions in the realm of the emotions is even more challenging. Try being mindful of how little distinction you make between caring about something or somebody and being attached to that thing or person. The Buddha taught that one of the fundamental characteristics of the universe is anicca, meaning that everything changes. We all know that this is true from our own experience, yet often we hold onto something or someone as though what we care about should be exempt from this fundamental law.

There is a wonderful story that makes this distinction between caring and attachment in a very wise way. There was once a yogi who had the job of tending to his teacher's food bowl and cup, the latter being the only object the student had ever witnessed his teacher seeming to care about. One day while washing the cup, the yogi's mind wandered and the cup smashed to pieces on the floor. The yogi was horrified because this cup had been his teacher's teacher's cup, and he in turn had received it from his teacher. So three generations of mindfulness lay in ruins, and the student was sick with regret and grief. Finally he gathered enough courage to stammer out a confession to his teacher. The teacher just smiled and said, "Don't be so distraught. I always drank from that cup as though it were already broken."

Imagine making such a distinction in your own life—to venerate the things and people you love with your caring while appreciating them in the manner that only feeling their loss can provide. In yoga class, in your romantic relationships, as a parent, and in your work, you are gathering your attention into little cups of intention, values, and effort. It is wonderful that human beings have this capacity, but if you are to have any freedom in your life, drink from each of those cups as though they were already broken.

The Journey vs. the Destination

Another wise distinction that relates both to your yoga practice and the other aspects of your life is understanding the difference between the journey and the destination. Our culture is obsessively goal-oriented. Observe for yourself how much of the time you measure how well you are doing in regard to your destination while ignoring how you really feel in the moment. First it's being able to do Headstand, then being able to hold it for 10 minutes, then trying to make it more perfect. The same with money or recognition: If only you had this much, then you would be happy; but, oh, if you had this much more, you'd really be happy.

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