Ah, resistance to change. I admit I like my routines and cringe at change, but I’m not the dig-your-heels-in-the-ground sort. I don’t invite the dramatic change, but even when my first wife said adios and even when lightning said hello! to my farmhouse rooftop, I cried and yelled and stomped my feet, and then I found a way to move on.  Okay, both of those events took a long time to move through, but I didn’t resist either because they were both inevitable.

I have a similar attitude about rewriting of the big kind – re-visioning. Several years ago when my editor at Penguin sent me back the first submitted draft of The Journey from the Center to the Page, I opened the package and found an eleven-page, single-spaced typed letter that began something like, “You have some good material here, but we’ve got a long way to go before this is publishable.” Most of the next eleven pages listed all of the problems and a few possible solutions. The manuscript itself had page after page with my editor’s pen marks Xed on them.

My response? I went to bed for two days. After two days, I went to my yoga mat, centered my mind, and said, “Okay. I know how to do this. Let’s get to work.” And I did. I salvaged maybe 15% of the original manuscript, but the new version was mostly unrecognizable from what I originally submitted. And even when it came out, I wasn’t satisfied with it. Four years later, Monkfish published a revised and updated edition. I do the same with short stories, and my current book project has gone through at least eight major structural overhauls. Since my college days, I don’t recall being much different. I get shocked. I cringe. And then I get to work.

As a coach and editor, I am often on the other side of this deal. After I have suggested to certain clients that they shift a story’s point of view or try to embody a different character or drop an entire sub-plot, they say to themselves or to their friends, “He doesn’t get my artistic intentions! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” I know because they’ve later told me so. The happiest and most productive clients/writers with whom I have worked and known are ones who learn to stomp their feet and then find a way to get back to work.  

Novelist Benjamin Percy is such a writer. In the current issue of Poets & Writers, he compares revisioning a novel to renovating a house. It turns out that just as he and his wife had bought a house in desperate need of renovation, Greywolf Press had bought his novel. According to his new editor, the novel also needed major renovation. So Percy got to work – on both the house and the novel.

Why do we resist?

Here’s what Percy writes: “So much of revision, I’ve discovered, is about coming to terms with that word: gone. Letting things go. When revising, the beginning writer spends hours consulting the thesaurus, replacing a period with a semicolon, cutting adjectives, adding a few descriptive sentences – whereas the professional writer mercilessly lops off limbs, rips out innards like party streamers, drains away gallons of blood, and then calls down the lightning to bring the body back to life.”

Percy also observes why some amateur writers resist revision. If you’re writing only when the mood strikes you, he says, then you have less pages of productivity – and so you want to hold onto those few pages. “But if you’re producing reams of pages you’ll be less resistant to revision,” he writes, “because you know it won’t be long before another load of timber comes down the road.” So write and write and write everyday – and the task of rewriting won’t seem so daunting.

And yoga is all about letting go. With practice, yoga helps us see the mental patterns that hold us back as writers. We can start to see how our minds react to constructive criticism, how our mental loops can keep us locked in inertia and resistance, and how our bodies will avoid the desk at all costs when we know we need to rewrite.

Yet, sometimes more spiritually inclined writers have resisted my suggestions for rewriting for another reason. They feel they are channeling or otherwise receiving messages from a spirit or spirits and that to tinker too much with the original inspiration might offend the spirits. I sympathize, but I can’t convince these writers that spirits probably are not as attached to words as we are or that earth constantly revises herself. Everything changes. And yet we sometimes protect our sentences as if they were pyramids or stone temples built to outlast the next 2000 winters.

As a coach, I suppose I am a sort of wind god who unexpectedly may throw you off course, but I don’t do so at whim. My hope is that the wind ultimately blows your boat in the right direction and helps you learn to get yourself precisely where you need even it was not where you thought you were going or wanted to go.

Writing is temporary. All of it is. Stomp your feet. Hurl an epithet at your coach – that force of creative chaos and change. Then move on. There’s work to do while you’re still here.

For more on this topic, see Chapter 22, “Letting Go of Delusion and Control: Revise!” in The Journey from the Center to the Page.  (I had to revise that chapter significantly!)

Freedom is Not Just Another Word

I would like to say a few closing words.

Writing toward truth requires more than saying, “Well, I am living and speaking my truth!” To write, live, and speak the truth, seems to me, requires that I frequently check in with the foundation of my writing, speaking, and living: the mind. The embodied mind, more precisely. And even more precisely, I check in with what I know to be the truth and what I think I know to be the truth – both of which are jnana. Knowledge. Knowledge can bind us; knowledge can liberate us. Being in a physical body can bind us; and it can liberate us. Our actions can bind us; the actor behind the actions can liberate us. The sounds of language can bind us; the sounds of language can liberate us.

It turns out that liberation for most of us is neither immediate nor permanent in this lifetime. To live with consciousness of consciousness in a non-dual world involves dancing between freedom and bondage. The promise and the reality are that as you practice, the ratio can shift. You can dance in freedom for more frequent and longer periods, and even when you’re in bondage you can recognize it more readily, know that it’s temporary, and be versatile enough to find the tools that will unlock the shackles or unravel the ropes.

The light on your reactivity meter will still be active at certain surprising times. You will still have inexplicable emotional bursts, judgmental thoughts will still raise their heads like prairie dogs, but less so perhaps and the energy those undesirable thought patterns once held on the mind may gradually have less and less and less sustaining charge.

Mind spreads out wide like the New Mexico sky. It wants to be given shape with purpose and focus the way earth’s horizon defines sky, but the sky-mind does not want to stay locked up in old adolescent patterns.

Would you want to stay in seventh grade all your life? Neither does the mind.

As writers, we are more than our characters even though we cannot control them. We are more than our poem’s speakers and our stories’ narrators even though we must step out of the way that they may speak with freedom and truth beyond what our processor minds could say. When we let True Self reside deeply and at home in Animate Body, and when we write from that space, that center, then, yes, we can write into the unknown labyrinth and perhaps hear the voice behind the voices that helps us find our way home.

Writing, it might turn out, is self-exploration and self-expansion – an expanded awareness of what is the self, an awareness that allows the self to inhabit multiple points of view, an awareness that allows the self to delve into complex layers and mythic layers.

Practice
But we must practice. Yoga. Every. Day. Do so for fifteen days from March 22-April 5. See what happens. The commentary in the Hatha Yoga Pradipika makes claims such as, “Try this tool for 15 days, and you will be free.” When I first read that, I’d say to myself, “Well, there’s an early New Age self-help claim.” But, it’s true. You try a yogic tool deliberately for 15 days, and you observe the mind and body, and you will observe a shift, and that observation of the shift is a movement toward freedom from old habits. Practice Yoga As Muse at least three times a week. Write for only 45 minutes at first.

You can spend a lifetime analyzing why you act the way you do, why you don’t do what you know you want to do. And maybe, maybe after twenty years of psychoanalysis, you might or might not get to “the bottom” of things only to find out that you still act the way you do; only now, you have an excuse for those habits. I suggest you stop analyzing why.

Act differently. When you act differently, the mind’s habits will follow.

A practice asks us to cultivate tapas – a series of voluntary self-challenges. A series of voluntary self-challenges – that is the heart of being a writer. It demands you not talk away your project, that you only talk about what you have written, not what you are going to write. That you grow accustomed to rejection.  Cultivate the ability to be disappointed. And move on.

Above all, you keep writing. Better fifteen minutes a day no matter what than 90 minutes a week or every two weeks. All of which let’s you move toward the difficult and lets you hang up on the Inner Heckler.

The Return and the Ultimate Responsibility
When you return home, you will still need allies. Find one to three others with whom to share your Yoga As Muse wisdom. Start them with the Concentration Sequence, rotate facilitating one another.  This journey is beautiful, and it’s also rife with obstacles and challenges.  Don’t surrender to the obstacles.  Greet them. Welcome them.  And stay in touch with one another for encouragement and for generosity, for compassion and for truthfulness.

You will return home, most of you, a different person. When Odysseus returned from his 20-year journey, he returned disguised as a beggar. That is, no one recognized him. And some of your loved ones may not recognize you as you start to act and speak and write differently. Don’t judge them for not having changed the way you have. Have compassion and patience for their own growth. When Odysseus returned home, Penelope reminded the hero he was also a husband. He was both: a hero and a husband. In that sense, he was transfigured. He could live in both worlds simultaneously. When you practice Yoga As Muse, you can live in the world of ideas and creativity and spirit and in the world of chores and a job. They are not at odds.

But be responsible. And know to what you ultimately must be responsible. The Self has a dharma. Something calls the Self to act well in the world. Your ultimate responsibility is not your small obligations to others – although you cannot abnegate those obligations. Be responsible to that part of the Self that you cannot even call your own. I remember every day what Krishna said to Arjuna in the Bhagavad-Gita:

“It is better to perform your own duty imperfectly than someone else’s perfectly.”

Here’s to responsible imperfection.

And this, too:
A retreat is to the soul what winter is to the earth.  It is a time to withdraw, to let seeds sink deep into soil, to be in darkness where seeds sprout.

Remember Sunday evening when with seeds at your heart you asked, What am I here for?  You might have fulfilled your intention.  You might have gotten more than you asked for.

Now, spring is just around the bend.  Make a commitment for the next fifteen days—from March 22 to April 6—to meet with your muse at least 6 times.

Let a place find you here before you leave and plant half your seeds.  Then go home, find a place, a small pot, a patch of yard, and plant them.

The Gift of Writing the Truth
When I traveled through the Himalayas, an affable retired engineer who had a lovely house and orchard and two children had invited me into his home and told me a story about Vac. Vac is a feminine force of sacred speech described in the Vedas, but this story is not in there. He said that Vac deeply desired to grant the gift of sacred speech to human beings. The other deities who dwelled on a high mountain thought that idea inane. “They’ll abuse the gift!” one of them said. “They don’t know how to use sacred speech,” another protested. But Vac insisted. Well, they wanted to persecute Vac for her insubordination, so she fled among the banyan trees. When the gods demanded the trees extradite her for punishment, the trees held out on behalf of Vac and said, “We will let her go, but only if you grant her wish.”

The gods gave in. And Vac gave us the gift of scared speech. And so musicians who played wooden instruments and writers who use paper remember the role that the trees played in granting us this gift of sacred speech and of writing and singing toward the truth in all of its layers.

To speak and write the truth assumes great risks. People bristle at the truth. They’re offended. Your mother will cringe. Writers risk be alienated from families and whole communities. Such exile is the risk some of us must take not to do battle with the world but to continue loving the world with the wish that all creatures will remember that they are or can be happy and they can be free from their own suffering.

You’ll feel when you write from the truth. It vibrates differently than when you’re merely spinning your ego’s wheels. An authentic intention lines up with the words, and from that centered alignment Vac brings the words to the page. It’s a gift. Use it responsibly. And be responsible to use it.

I wish you grace and peace on your travels home. Om Gum Ganapataye Namaha.

The best in me reaching out to the best in you.

Is the muse out there? To be inspired or to inspire one’s self?

Is the muse inside or outside? That question has gnawed at me since I coined the phrase “Yoga As Muse” years ago. And over the years the phrase has rubbed more than one writer with whom I’ve worked the wrong way. Once, a writer in Taos said to me in private something to the effect of, “I like what you’re doing, but there’s something about the word ‘muse’ that doesn’t sit right with me. Something about some entity outside of me,” and her flittering fingers made a gesture that implied fairy dust.

I nodded and said something like, “Right, right.” I cleared my throat and said, “But the idea of Yoga As Muse is that the muse is within and that any source of ‘inspiration’ is at our disposal as readily as is the harnessed breath.” She wasn’t satisfied. “Muse” still said to her Tinkerbell.

A few years ago at a workshop I offered in Woodstock, New York, the point came up again. A sweet-faced man said, “Do you sometimes feel as if another force is coming through you? When I write, I feel as if I’m simply channeling some other force.” He smiled wide as if he had found a kindred spirit.  “No,” I quipped.  “I take full responsibility for whatever dribble I might write.” He stopped smiling. I hope the poor man didn’t feel shunned. Probably not. He and his force are probably happy as dancing clams co-writing book after book while I wrestle like Job with mine.

But I understand what that man meant, in part. More than once, I’ve re-read something I’ve written, been privately pleased, and wondered, “How did I write that? Where was I when I wrote that?” And the truth may be “I” got out of the way. Or, rather, a part of my mind that’s attached to my little personality being projected to the world stepped aside for the moment so that a deeper imagination, felt mind, and sensual tongue could come out to play.  

Still, the idea of a “muse out there” is dangerous to some aspiring writers. Recently, I offered a one-hour tele-seminar with up2Yoga about Yoga As Muse. A young writer said that for years she’s only written spontaneously when she felt “inspired” but does not feel as if she has any control over when those feelings arise. She’d like to write more consistently. That’s the problem. Some young writers grow up thinking that to be a “real writer” you must work yourself up into an intoxicated frenzy or get dizzy on the Himalayan peaks and write unfettered and free-form a la myths of Jack Kerouac. Whether booze or Headstand, the muse is supposed to propel them into ecstasy-driven verses and memoirs. But what about the other 364 days of the year when you’re doing the laundry, raising kids, and driving to work? The muse is not out there, I tell these aspiring writers. You don’t have to wait for the muse to show up, I say. It’s here. You show up for it. (And leave the bottled spirits to the tortured literary ghosts of the past.)

Then, Elizabeth Gilbert comes along and shakes it all up. I watched her deliver a smart talk at TED in which she persuasively suggests we at least imagine again the Greco-Roman idea of the “personal genius” as a creative person’s muse. The Greco-Roman idea of “genius” – from which the word “genie” derives – is that we each have a genius, not that any one is a genius. It’s sort of like having your own personal assistant, only this assistant teems with novel ideas and insights, fresh associations, riveting characters and voices, a panoply of material. At least, that is, if you’re assigned a good genius or if your genius is having a good day.

Imagining such an idea – what’s the harm of imagining? – gives writers a necessary distance on their process. Gilbert says writers then don’t have to feel mortified if they’ve produced a wretched novel: Their genius didn’t work especially hard. And they also cannot gloat if their book takes the globe by surprise like, say, Eat, Pray, Love: It was mostly the personal genius’s work. Such an idea of the personal genius could, Gilbert suggests, hold the writer’s ego in check.

It’s a seductive idea. I want to imagine my personal genius. Right now, she’s probably an over-worked task-master. But when I listen to her, take walks with her, and just sit quietly with her by a creek or by a window, she invariably fills me with a manic stream of metaphors or sound clusters that help me wade again in a pool of language. For better or worse. Yes, sometimes she carries me away on a metaphor ferry. She’s edgy and earthy, has dried moss for hair in the shape of dreadlocks, and tells me bawdy jokes about insects and plants that I don’t really get. She laughs anyway. And she also does something to my skin. Sort of strokes it as I write so I can feel the words on the page like entities themselves instead of just letting words shoot out like widgets from a machine. She puts the spell in spelling.

But I know, too, something about Homer and Virgil and Ovid and all those marvelous bards who called upon the muses. When they called upon the muses to breathe into them, they weren’t speaking figuratively. The Greek word pneuman and the Latin word spiritus both mean “breath” but also mean “wind” and “breeze” and “soul” and “spirit.” It is the life force that moves through them and allows them to do what earth’s elements do so effortlessly – create. The root of the word  inspiration is spirare, this way of breathing the life force that is wind and soul.

What the Romans called spiritus the yogis call prana. And pranayama is the art of harnessing this creative force within the body. A person learns this art first by learning breathing exercises. But those exercises are only the beginning of the art. Over time, a yogi, or Yoga As Muser for that matter, learns several ways to shift fatigue, self-doubt, and a crowded mind to a creative frame of mind. They may not be “inspired” with trumpets blaring as the red sun rises, but they do muster the equanimity to put one word in front of the other and walk with a bit more ease on the page.

Maybe the practice primes the mind to receive the personal genius. I can hear my little genius laughing in my study. She’s lounging on the chaise lounge that looks onto the wide-mouthed pond out back.

“What are you laughing at?” I ask.

“You. You have to be so practical, so rational all the time. That prana stuff is not all science, you know?” She winds a tender finger in her dreadlock moss and whispers, “Let a little magic and mystery in.”

I get up and move to the living room. At this moment, a wood fire blazes in the cast-iron stove. A fourteen-year-old cat licks its matted fur and then gazes at the flames. A woman fries eggs in a skillet. And a six-month-old girl squirms on the hardwood floor, fascinated with a stripe of sunlight.

Guidelines:

• Please submit only one story at a time.
  Your manuscript should be double-spaced with full author information including your name, address, phone number, and e-mail address on the first page.   A brief cover letter is useful.   Please use only our online Submission Manager.
• We acquire first-time North American rights; non-exclusive, one-time anthology rights; and the right to run a portion of the story on our web site.   After publication, all other rights revert to the author and the work may be reprinted as long as appropriate acknowledgment to TIFERET Magazine is made.
• Authors proof their galleys and will receive 2 copies of the issue in which their work appears.
  We read submissions year-round but regret we can’t comment on all of them. All manuscripts are carefully considered. Turn-around time is usually 1-3 months.

We look forward to reading your work. Thank you.
Jeffrey Davis, Fiction Editor
editors@tiferetjournal.com

Second, I am especially honored that the publisher of Tiferet has invited me on board as fiction editor.

Tiferet publishes four online issues and two beautiful and substantial print issues a year. At a new subscription rate of $15 a year, Tiferet is a bargain.

She’s spot on. I’ve been writing about this very thing lately. A few weeks ago, I was refining some material for an e-mail Yoga and Writing course I’m teaching this month on Yoga, Writing, and Writing Into the True Self, and I thought this group might appreciate some of it:

A character’s body, its infinite parts and endless history, grounds my writer’s “processor mind.” My processor mind is the mind that strives to explain away, to over-think and analyze, to complete the story or poem long before my imagination and hands have even reached the tenth sentence or line. It is all sky and meaning and figuring out; it is little earth.

If I can imagine how a character’s hands finesse a hammer and even what the fingers look like – sausages or drum sticks or budding hickory branches in summer – then my processor mind gives way to the felt mind. The felt mind strokes textures, senses what only Doris’s skin on her spotted forearms feels like on this one icy blue January morning. The felt mind hears the sounds of syllables and lets words wash over the inner ear and insides of my own fingers even as I write. If the processor mind is made of air and steel, then the felt mind is made of silk and sinew, of felt and grit. It is mostly earth.

I access the felt mind at key moments when writing, moments that are difficult, I admit, to distinguish. When I hear language lag or clunk, when I feel it grow cumbersome and stale like some scholar’s stack of moldy books, then I pause and listen for the words behind the words, the textures beneath the phrases. When I hear the writing voice strain to explain to the reader some point – Do you get it? Are you following me? – then I close my eyes and let the sound of breath lead my imagination to an image. A bulbous nose the shape of a large garlic clove appears on the face of Doris’s date. A pang arises in an uncle’s generous belly. The image brings my language back to earth, so to speak, and gives my imagination – and that of my readers – something to hold on to.

To arouse my felt mind, I regularly bring a character’s body to the mat. The mat has helped me sense, paradoxically, what it must have felt like to be that 26-year-old lonely workaholic who shares my name with no notion of his body below his neck. The mat has helped me explore the body of Doris, an imagined 58-year-old woman who, I think for now at least, is a not-too-bitter widow and who, while trying to revive her dating life, grieves her southward-bound breasts.  My existing emotional body – with its own creaky crevices and layers of sensations – is my grounding point. The emotional body mixed with embodied imagination and intuition lure me into these character’s body-scapes that I might do justice to their experience.

Pulitzer Prize-winning fiction writer Robert Olen Butler actually uses the word “trance” to describe to his undergrads in Florida what they need to get into in order to write. “Do whatever you need to,” he says in essence, “to get into that waking dream state.”

This subtle yoga and meditation practice entrances me and gives me entrance to the felt mind.  Studies on Yoga Nidra and other yogic practices have shown that even beginning practitioners demonstrate increased emotional intelligence - and their brain stimulation corroborates that the brain’s limbic system (what we might call the brain’s emotional zone) communicates with the brain’s somatosensory region (where stimulation for touch and body orientation arise).

Thanks for your comments on previous posts, by the way. I’d love to hear more about your experiences with yoga & writing.

- Jeffrey

CENTER TO PAGE
MOVING WRITERS FROM
THE CENTER TO THE PAGE
C E N T E R T O P A G E . C O M
The Journey from the Center to the Page (Monkfish 2008; Penguin 2004)

It’s a precarious way of life, this writing from some place where “will” steps aside and something else altogether takes over. I don’t mean to imply that divine agency is afoot or that little daimons in my brain relay signals from my imagination to my hands, mere five-limbed workers that peck out the right combinations of keyboard keys while “I” just sit back and contemplate my grocery list.  I won’t blame “inspiration” or my hands for any dribble I write. Still, on the page, who’s in charge?

I don’t know, and in that not-knowing I derive endless pleasure from the writing process’s mystery. The mind writes its own song, and I hum the tunes and shape the melodies. A stranger in a waiting room speaks on her cell phone about her latest dating exploits, and three months later that voice becomes a character for a short story. A moment by a woodstove fire rattles something in the mind until the loose bits coalesce that night into a poem. But how do I or any writer shape those melodies or reveries or stories or poems? Like most writers I know and respect, I have had to find ways to get out of my own way. When I come to the page, I must let these hands orchestrate imagination’s symphony without merely taking “dictation.”

And for me, those out-of-the-way ways have been through yoga.

Yoga, as I practice it, is not an exercise – although it profoundly has improved my breathing, temperament, and immunity. It also is not a religion – although it enriches my spiritual life. For over ten years, yoga has afforded this overly analytical, overly serious, overly sedentary writer opportunities to renew his writing process.

And so this blog: On this blog, I’ll share some of my current experiences in engaging yoga as muse. I’m not the only one onto this path. I work with and stay in touch with thousands of writers throughout North America and around the world who likewise have discovered in yoga a timeless way to embody the creative impulse and spirit. I’ll connect you with some of them, and this blog will keep you posted the latest news and trends regarding yoga & creativity. Finally, because I work as an editor, mentor, and coach, I also will include posts related to those topics as well.

We’re not so different. Whether I am teaching in Greece, Nova Scotia, Taos, or the tiny farming hamlet in upstate New York where I live, I am struck by what we writers and artists hold in common. We yearn to write from that deep source regularly and not erratically – say, when some unreliable “muse,” like a bad boyfriend or girlfriend, just shows up out of the blue on your front door and asks to be let in. We yearn to feel vital as we write and that the words we wield have a verve and breath of their own. And we yearn to get out of the way of our own writing. When we get out of the way, we get into the way of flow.

For this posting, I want to answer some frequently asked questions related to Yoga As Muse.

WHAT IS YOGA?

I answer this question as a writer who came to yoga later but also as a writer who has completed two Yoga Teacher Trainings, traveled to South India to study with his primary teacher, who continues to study seminal yogic texts, and who has taught yoga in different venues. Yoga is a way to live more fully in this body, in this physical world; it is not an escape from nor abnegation of this world. This way includes a series of tools that when executed regularly and appropriately alter the patterns of mind, speech, and action. It hones concentration, awakens compassion, ignites imagination, builds discipline and discernment, and expands awareness. It is a practice of small liberations in this lifetime.

WHAT IS YOGA NOT?

It is not exercise although your body – especially if it’s aging like mine – will benefit. It is not a religion – although Hindus have appropriated some of its teachings and it can awaken that which you might call spiritual. It is not an excuse to feel pious or self-righteous or somehow better than people who do not practice yoga. Many of yoga’s tools, after all, aim to help us experience the break down of dualistic consciousness.

I am infinitely flawed and contradictory. I cuss at lunatic SUV drivers on the New Jersey Turnpike; I eat too much dark chocolate until my body crashes; and I have a gift not only for putting my foot behind my head but also squarely in my mouth. So, yoga is not about achieving moral or physical perfection.

WHAT IS YOGA AS MUSE?

Yoga as Muse is a term I use to describe the way I integrate yoga’s tools directly into my creative process. At the foundational level, I set writing intentions, engage the appropriate yogic tools for a writing intention, and write with a receptive, easeful state of mind and body.

I have learned what tools lasso my concentration, crack open my heart toward my characters, break my mind out of hard-edged conceptions, and lure images like fish to the surface. But the process is not mechanical. 

I have taught literature and creative writing courses at high schools and colleges for years, but I was frustrated by a key problem in how creative writing is – and often must be – taught in academia: A teacher or professor can teach craft, can point students toward model texts, can critique students’ writings, and in essence try to describe what works in the student and what does not work. But few writing teachers or professors have academic permission to teach students the how. When it comes to process, most writing pedagogy gets no further than the “pre-write, draft, re-vision, edit” stage or a few “creative exercises” that might include playing music or putting on goofy hats and writing as a caterpillar.

Yoga, when approached in the way I’m describing, helps writers become more aware of how their imaginations, intellects, and emotions work for or against their writing. From that faculty awareness follows craft awareness.

WHAT ARE YOGA AS MUSE TOOLS?

Yoga as Muse tools are the same as yoga’s tools. Physical postures both shift physical energy as well as alter the mind’s point of awareness and degree of awareness. Yoga offers numerous breathing tools that can elevate alertness and energy, calm the nervous system, and stimulate the imagination and unconscious.  Meditation tools increase writers’ awareness of their mind’s margins and percolating unconscious. Chanting tools can awaken writers’ inner ear for musicality, rhythm, and voice.  Philosophy tools and daily practice tools help writers live the writing life – from drafting to publishing – without losing their center.

DOESN’T THIS HYBRIDIZATION CHEAPEN YOGA’S SACREDNESS & PURITY?

No. Here are three reasons why not.

#1: Yoga is adaptive and dynamic, not static.  A quick study of yoga’s history of Yoga betrays that “Yoga” refers to numerous practices all aimed either toward liberation or peace. There is meditation yoga (raja yoga), the yoga of selfless service (karma yoga), the yoga of chanting (bhakti yoga), and the yoga of physical transformation and transmutation (hatha yoga) to name a few. Within hatha yoga alone, literally hundreds of traditions have sprouted, and the teachers for centuries have learned from one another and adapted their teachings accordingly. The teaching of yoga has always been adapted to and changed according to students’ time, place, and needs. Thousands of creative people in the 21^st century need a clear way to embody their creative process.

#2: Yogis have drawn from their practices to write and to create for centuries.  Numerous yogic texts are said to have been “revealed” to their authors. Without recourse to the reductive terms of Western psychology, how else would you describe that luminous state of awareness that yoga and meditation can bring a writer to? Bhakti yoginis such as Mirabai found direct inspiration for their poetry in their devotional practices. More contemporary yogis such as Sri Aurobindo felt that creativity was our evolutionary gift. In this sense, Yoga As Muse is as ancient as the first chant.

#3: “Tools” are a seminal aspect of almost all yogic and Buddhist traditions.  Yoga and Buddhism attract contemporary Westerners in part because of the endless teaching tools these traditions’ teachers have at their disposal. These tools are called upaya in Sanskrit, which translates loosely to “skillful means.” Yoga As Muse draws upon many of these same tools with the aim of creative liberation (not perfection).

WHAT IF I DON’T HAVE TWO HOURS OR $15 A DAY FOR A YOGA CLASS?

My teacher Sri TKV Desikachar liberated me from feeling obligated to practice yoga 90 minutes to two hours a day. “20 to 30 minutes a day,” he would say, “is much better than two hours once a week.” The same is true for writing. The body and mind need daily tending; so, too, does the imagination’s and unconscious’s bidding. Ideally, you can visit your yoga teacher once or more a week for guidance and deepening, but Yoga As Muse can be practiced at your own home and woven into your daily life’s fabric. I know numerous writers who have written books 20 minutes at a time.

That’s enough to pique your curiosity, I hope.  Send me questions to jeffdavis@centertopage.com, or visit www.centertopage.com to learn more.

In upcoming entries, I’ll share with you how Yoga As Muse helped me write a short story, yoga session after yoga session; how yoga helps me and others write into the truth; and much, much more.

The best in me reaching out to the best in you,

Jeffrey

Cindy Anne Duncan received a yogic bolt to her writing life following a Yoga As Muse retreat in 2008. Soon after, she received a regular writing gig and now has landed a publisher - Good Sound Publishing - for her Grace Anne children’s book series. The first one should come out in 2010. Congratulations, Cindy.

Journalist and Yoga As Muser Michael Belfiore’s latest book The Department of Mad Scientists has just come out (Smithsonian Books/Harper Collins). It promises to offer engaging stories about a little-known department of Pentagon scientists who have invented the Internet, the bionic arm, and some impressive solar technology.  If Michael’s previous book Rocketeers is any indication, this book will include his signature capacity to feature the personalities, dreams, and antics of some otherwise overlooked people who wield powerful influence over our world of gadgets.

“Because, in truth, I didn’t become a writer the first time I put pen to paper or when I finished my first book (easy) or my second one (hard). You see, in my view a writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view a writer is a writer because even when … there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway. Wasn’t until that night when I was faced with all those lousy pages that I realized, really realized, what it was exactly that I am.” 

We writers - aspiring writers and veteran writers - often must check in with our great expectations. We expect our first manuscript to be instantly picked up by an agent, editor, or publisher. We expect to reach best-seller status instantly. We expect Larry King and Oprah to ring. Write. Write without expectation. Write because you must, because you cannot not write. Because it is your responsibility to listen to that great small voice within as much as it is your responsibility to lull your babe to sleep and change her diapers and soothe her back to sleep at 3:12 am.

Shall I list all the stories of the Herman Melvilles and Stephen Kings and Junot Diazes who persevered despite receiving little or no recognition for years? Or the stories of writers who never received recognition? Or the stories of writers who received early accolades in their writing career and of whom now most of us have never heard?

I get to the mat because I have to. I get to the page likewise.

You?