Distinctly Indistinct

By Annie

“You were just a twinkle in your Daddy’s eye…” They way our parents described us before we were born hints at an indistinct quality of who we are—an ephemeral essence of being-ness, before we actually “became” a person. In our origins, we are conceived with in-distinction, but the moment we are born, everything changes. 

We suddenly comprise a form that’s distinct and separate from all other forms. We are given a name. Opinions about us are immediately formed: She’s so cute! His eyes are so big! Why does she cry so much? And if we’re lucky, every need is monitored and met. We’re tended and cuddled and swaddled, all within that distinction that we are “someONE.” 


But from an early age, we know at a subconscious level that there’s more to who we are, because we feel the largeness of our spirit. We look up wondering: How many stars are up there? Where did I come from and why am I here? What is this feeling that I know I’ve been here in this moment with these people before? Within our distinction, we sit with in-distinction.


At the same time, we gain self-sufficiency. We learn that skating on our knees moves us from one corner to another. We learn to hold on to the edge of the sofa and balance on our feet. We learn that if no one’s looking, we can go into the closet with scissors and cut bangs in our hair. Or at age 14, sneak out with Jamie and steal her dad’s 1972 Ford Maverick Grabber and drive around the neighborhood in the middle of the night (still so sorry, Mr. Rubbin!). And move away to college. Get a job and an apartment. Living with distinction.


The challenges get bigger and the wonderments expand. Is world peace attainable? Why does genocide keep happening? What deadly diseases loom in the future? And also, what is love and how to I get it and hold on to it and pass it down the line? Grappling with in-distinction. 


And then it gets too scary, and we have to feed our sense cravings to provide self-comfort and reassurance that we can still be swaddled. And god help us if we were among those who didn’t get swaddled sufficiently as infants or in early childhood. The trauma of neglect, no matter how small, plays out in myriad ways of self-medicating with our choice of sensory satisfactions. We tether ourselves to something—anything—that makes “sense.”  Clinging to distinction.


AND. Nevertheless, we persist…in asking big questions. We know there’s something more to who we are than just what we can touch, feel, hear, see, smell. We get curious and creative. We gaze with wonder and awe and amazement not just at a single grain of sand but the vast desert. Not just a drop of water but the expanse of ocean. Then we make metaphor and see snowmen in clouds, and skyscapes in snow. 

Life is a constant mediation between the distinctions of self and the in-distinctions of spirit. THIS IS YOGA. The joining of apparent opposites, with an effort to reconcile them. Yoking the distinct and the indistinct. 


It is precisely within that negotiation that we need each other. Seriously. When we work through grief, we need someone to sit by our side and not try to make it disappear but to witness our suffering and help us get to the next breath. When we’re hungry, it’s a beautiful thing when someone feeds us. And that feeling gets laid down in our deep psyche so that when we see someone else hungry, we feed them back.  This life cannot be done alone.



The inherent conflict of being an individual and a connected soul compels us to relate as fellow humans in the same mess. And it’s via the essence of those human relations that, in its own apparent indistinct reality that we sometimes call love, we create the next distinct human to be born, and go through the whole thing all over again. 


May those who come after us find the path a bit easier to tread.


By Annie Moyer


Just before my senior year in high school my summertime friends and I carved our initials on the wooden landing by the sea at Cape Cod. We stood there, posed for a photo, and then memorialized our youth at the top of stairs leading down to the beach we’d played on and swam at every year since I was nine. I hadn’t been back to visit until this summer, the one before my daughters’ own senior year, coordinating the trip around their exploratory college visits. We arrived to find not much changed in our friends’ cottage, the warm and welcoming beachfront destination for so many of us across generations, but the big shock was the re-built landing. Our initials were gone!

After the initial disappointment, it seemed silly to give it another thought. Did I really expect that weather-beaten wood on the New England coast would have withstood 30-plus years of beach-bound children, rowdy teens, and happy-hour celebrating adults without ever being repaired? The house not having changed brought comfort, and yet the contrast with the shiny new landing, untouched by our youthful imprint, stung. The Yoga Sutras identify five causes of suffering, the last of which is fear of losing the status quo, or an imagining that things don’t or shouldn’t change. But the ability to identify the causes of suffering isn’t meant to be confused with the ability to erase it from our lives. A life fully-lived is one that encounters the full spectrum of human emotion. To be human is to be hurt. To live is to lose.

Yoga practice provides a framework to sort through the spectrum of life’s experiences and to reconcile the contrasts of presence and loss. In the midst of a pleasurable time, enjoy. If the ending is sad or painful, grieve the loss. In the midst of unpleasantness, bear its presence and rejoice its end. Through it all, examine closely and inquire what circumstances are within our power to alter if we choose to, and which ones are beyond our control. If we can reasonably extend a pleasurable time, why not? If a difficult time can be averted or mitigated, take charge! As our teacher Erich Schiffmann says, practice on the small stuff: mealtime, traffic, yoga postures – thereby building skills for the bigger and biggest stuff: navigating career changes, feeling relationships shift, moving to a new home, honoring the lives of lost loved ones.

Clearly life is a string of changes, comings, and goings. But is something gone simply because it’s no longer tangibly present? The initials may not be visible in wood any longer, but I can read them, clear as day, in my heart.

Really, Really Listen by Amir

We start every yoga class by practicing “centering” as way to our relax mind and body so that we can focus on the lesson to follow. We do this ritual so often that we may not grasp its importance, but developing this mindful state makes a significant contribution to our health and well-being.

When it comes to yoga practice, focus is everything. When I see articles about how people can injure themselves in yoga class, I hardly consider this news. I believe there are basically two ways to practice yoga: ‘wrongly’ and ‘correctly.’ The fact is that when you do anything physical ‘wrong,’ you risk injury. Can you injure yourself by sitting in your office chair? Yes, if you’re not paying attention. Try sitting in your chair incorrectly for ten years and see if your low back hurts.

The root source of a ‘wrong’ movement in any posture is a lack of focus on what your individual body is telling you about itself – like an inner referee watching the game intently, always on alert for infractions. Without this referee, we move habitually without any regard for how the challenge of the pose affects us. And even worse is simply ignoring strains and pains that arise – the referee who blatantly turns a blind eye to obvious fouls. The single and direct statement in the Yoga Sutras about asana practice dictates that a pose should be held steady and with ease, neither one of which involves hardship-inducing pain or strain.


This means really, really listening to all the details, down to the smallest. Small and simple movements repeated over and over can have a profound effect. Sometimes the most experienced students are the ones who have stopped really listening. In my therapy work, it’s quite common to work with an advanced student who suddenly starts experiencing pain in a joint. I ask if they are practicing correctly – and the answer is always yes. And I believe they think they are. Then I suggest a pose that would usually exacerbate their problem and ask if they feel any strain. The default answer, because of their experience and knowledge, is ‘no.’ But when I ask again, if they feel ‘any little strain at all,” the answer becomes, “well a just a little, but it’s nothing and I’m used to it, I hardly even notice.” And then there’s the eureka moment – how not listening to even just the littlest strain every day for years on end will eventually turn into a chronic problem.

With ‘correct’ yoga, we scan and listen to every internal message as we move in and out of poses, making the adjustments that the body needs as we find our own proper alignment. When we listen to the body, we create the conditions that lead to healing. And practicing this alignment over and over creates new habitual and 'correct' alignment patterns that spill over into your daily life.

Maybe you’ve heard the tale of the frog who jumps in the pot of hot water and knows immediately to get out before he’s boiled, as opposed to the other frog in the cold water that gradually warms to a final boil. This frog didn’t notice the temperature rising, because he wasn’t really paying attention to how it felt when things were heating up. Practicing yoga asana with a keen sensory awareness to every detail, every shift, every metaphorical temperature change becomes a life-long habit of awareness that can be applied to any area of life – work, relationships, eating, and daily habits of living. 

Try the practice of really, really listening. Start in yoga class, and bring it with you after you roll up your mat.