mathematics of freedom

the last time i was silent for three days, it was self-imposed. i was on a silent yoga retreat in northern california several years ago with a beloved sister-friend. she found it hard to be together and not be speaking, saying it felt as though we were in a fight. i didn’t feel the same (i don’t think we could ever have a fight even if we tried) and found myself absorbed in all the emotions the silence dredged up from within me. i wrote an essay about that and submitted it to some yoga magazine. but they weren’t interested. i think they were more interested on inspiration and enlightenment, less concerned with processing unruly emotions amid the redwoods. (shouldn’t there be space for both?) while i’m thinking about silence and processing both, will share that essay below.* thinking of this also has me thinking that i should try to do yoga later today. except that i am not meant to breathe deeply except into the nebulizer or do any real exercise. hmmm. maybe modified asanas.

in the meanwhile, i would be remiss if i did not note that the us-china human rights dialogues resumed last week in washington. from what i’ve heard so far, and i’ll learn more this weekend, it sounds as though it was a positive opening. this was the first dialogue since 2008, and the one before that was in 2002. and apparently a broad range of topics were discussed and the exchanges were frank. both sides committed to another round in beijing in 2011. the rule of law figured prominently. sandra day o’connor hosted the chinese delegation at the supreme court and apparently spoke very movingly about the important role that lawyers play in American society, and in the criminal justice system, the importance the US attaches to the independence of the judiciary, the independence of lawyers, the importance of pro bono representation. comments from those who were there suggested that the chinese guests undoubtedly got a sense that these values are pretty deeply imbued in our society. (on a complete side note related to the supreme court, i am absolutely thrilled at the prospect of there being three female justices!) all in all, i am hopeful that the resumption of this dialogue and the commitment to regularize it will have positive outcomes for the rule of law and then some.

in a book i was reading recently about the rule of law, there was a great discussion about “thin” v. “thick” understandings of the rule of law. “thin” being an understanding such that the laws – irrespective of their content – are adhered to or enforced. this focuses on rule of law simply as what is dictated by political authority or issued by the state. Under this minimalist approach, the third reich could be considered as having respected the rule of law because in terms of system and statute, the state functioned by the letter of the law. yet that “law” included provisions for genocide, which somehow doesn’t sit well when we think about “rule of law”. indeed, it is hard to view a state which savagely represses or persecutes sections of its people as observing the rule of law, even if the transport of the persecuted minority to the concentration camp or the compulsory exposure of female children on the mountainside is the subject of detailed laws duly enacted and scrupulously observed. the rule of law ought to amount to more. the “thick” understanding of the rule of law provides as much, embracing the protection of human rights as within its scope. this is not a universally accepted understanding of the rule of law, but i believe that one day it will be. our contemporary (and continuing) acceptance of the universality of human rights requires no less.

a final thought that caught in my mind of late. from spinoza, unsurprisingly: law is the mathematics of freedom. perhaps, in a sense, so is silence.

*ahem (keep in mind that this was ages ago):
Anger Through Asana

The anger was overwhelming. It raced through my entire body in electric steaks of deep purple and throbbing orange. I was furious. And then furious about being furious. Other people went on silent yoga retreats in order to be overwhelmed by waves of bliss, to be lit from within by an enduring, poignant sense of the ineffable. Instead, I was just wrought with intense anger. I opened an eye to see if anyone else in the meditation hall had noticed that I was trembling with the strain of containing it. I wanted to shout so loud the windows shattered. I wanted to tear my clothes off to release, to let these furies out. I could almost see them, awful, angry witches flying around through my veins, maniacally laughing. I wanted to bleed. Just to get them out of my system. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my fucking breath.

The waves of nausea began. I was so angry I was sick. I seriously thought that I was going to throw up on my yoga mat. I wondered whether I needed to make a run for the bathroom. Damn you, furies! Get out of here. “OM SHANTI!,” I shouted in my mind. I sighed, probably a little too audibly. But I didn’t care. I was drowning in a twister of rage, with angry witches having taken control of my mind and body. I thought this counted as a crisis and could justify a little noise. It was taking all my will and self-restraint not to allow the terrible cries in my soul to escape.

I tried to reason with myself. I told myself I could manage it, that I needn’t let this anger make me sick. I attempted to step back and observe these emotions, without judgment or attachment, to free myself from riding along with the furies (damn their cackling) on their terrible flight through me. But they were moving so fast. I frantically recalled the visualization exercise our yoga teacher had taught us a few days prior. I took a deep breath and began to gather all of that wretched throbbing anger together and just look at it. The furies cried out awfully as they were caught and collected. Their cries became groans as they melded together into an awful, smoldering mass of anger. I could see it before me in my mind. Keeping the anger together took almost as much strength as collecting it. I was surely shaking by now. But I knew what I had to do.

I envisioned myself holding the awful orb. I placed us on the edge of a very high, clear cliff. I walked to the edge with the smoldering, melded furies. I peered down to be sure I couldn’t see the bottom of this canyon. I didn’t want them coming apart, finding their brooms and flying back up into my blood. Satisfied that I was at the end of the world, in one last burst of strength, I pushed the anger off. I dusted off my palms, turned and did not look back. I tried to focus on my breath again, but was having a hard time. At least, I consoled myself, I hadn’t gone all the way to India to get angry. If I wasn’t going to find bliss, may as well not find it in California. At least I’d saved on airfare.

This dramatic internal struggle took place on a silent yoga retreat in Northern California. We were ensconced in a charming Tibetan monastery and retreat center in the redwood forest. It was remote and peaceful. My blackberry was safely hibernating in a cozy, simply furnished blue room. I had not come here to get angry. Although I doubt that I could have articulated why exactly I had come. Perhaps that was the problem. I had come on a whim. Without clear purpose, the furies had swooped in and caught me unawares. Vultures, really. But that’s what you get for not dealing.

What I had never dealt was with how angry I was at my unfaithful ex-fiancé. This was quite plain to me while I carefully stood up as the meditation session came to a close. I crouched first, leaning forward off my meditation cushion, and looked at the neat purple texture on my yoga mat. I picked at a place where there was a small tear. Yes, I thought to myself, this is what you get for not dealing. I gingerly stood up, staying silent and avoiding eye contact as per the rules of this retreat, and made my way to breakfast.

As I ate, I wondered where all of this was coming from. I was not an angry person by nature, and I did my bit of continuously trying to cultivate compassion. Even amid all of the addictive cycles of passion, betrayal, pain and his “Hail Mary” grand gestures, I never really got angry at my fiancé. I sobbed so hard I came apart and spent the night a dark blue puddle of despair on the floor, but then I was feeling sorry for myself. I screamed so inconsolably I lost my voice for days, but then I was frustrated. I punched the air. I punched the wall. I punched myself. Once, I punched him. But then I was so lost inside my hurt I was blindly throwing punches to find it outside myself. I considered cutting myself, but then I was trying to find somewhere to direct the pain. I considered throwing myself in front of a public bus, but then I was blaming myself. I lost my breath, lost my way, lost weight, lost myself. But I never really got angry.

Perhaps I had never allowed myself to get angry. The anger had been there, though. Focusing on my breath allowed me find it. An invisible undercurrent of rage had been swelling inside me for years. It took the discipline of silence and asana to compel me to turn inward and see it. And be swallowed by it. This was not what I had come here for. Once I considered it, I could see that I had come to this retreat to take a break from being held hostage by this relationship. To escape the intricate and dark cage I had helped to create, and commune with the bigger picture, even if only for a long weekend. Yes, I was still with him. I had given the ring back. He had recently moved out. But yet somehow, I was still with him.

I called him “Bright Eyes.” He called me “Brighter.” He was charming, and charmed. His was an incongruous personal history. The kind of story that leaves you immediately impressed and allows you to believe in America. He was attractive and self-confident, a natural networker and social host. He liked to party. The first time I kissed him and looked into his bright brown eyes, I knew I was in trouble.

But I never thought that I would stay in trouble so long. Something fell off the shelf inside me early into our relationship and it threw me off balance for five years. I did not truly sense this imbalance until I started practicing yoga consistently, a process which began with my agreeing to go on this silent yoga retreat with a friend. Sure I had dabbled in yoga before, but never in a serious or sustained way. I was not practicing at all when she asked, but I agreed without giving it much thought.

A few weeks before the retreat, I injured my foot while running. It was a very frustrating injury. I was constantly in pain, meekly limping around and miserable. I certainly couldn’t run and so I decided I ought to try a yoga class to make sure that I could still go on the retreat. I went to a yoga studio near my apartment that I’d walked by numerous times and had always meant to try. But it took a torn muscle in my left foot to actually get me off the street and into class.

As I slowly limped down the sidewalk en route to the studio on a cold, grey, wet February day, I cursed my luck. “God,” I wailed inside, “I wish I could just cut this foot off!” I made it up the stairs and settled onto my mat in a warm, lofty, embracing wooden space. I lay back on my mat and closed my eyes. It wasn’t until the teacher brought us together with the opening Om that I noticed the woman on the mat in front of mine. She did not have a left foot. In fact, she did not have a leg below her left knee and her prosthetic was neatly stacked against the wall beside her mat. I thought of my careless thought in the street and my heart danced a tornado ballet. I placed my hands in prayer in front of my heart and told God that I was humbled.

I have been practicing yoga at this studio since that humbling moment. I was able to get through class that day, and the next, and go on the retreat. Practicing even helped heal my injured foot. More importantly, practicing yoga began the process that would heal my heart. A process that I did not even know I was looking for until I found myself about to throw up on a yoga mat in a meditation hall in a monastery in the woods.

I first left my ex-fiancé a few years before that moment. I knew then that leaving him was the right thing to do. I had narrowly survived a nervous breakdown; I had thought about throwing myself in front of a bus. I had burned myself up – I was emaciated and exhausted and hollow. This was shortly after he had confirmed his infidelity for the first time. I broke. And I left him. My leaving didn’t last then. And it didn’t last the next six or seven times.

I didn’t seem to have the strength to stay gone. I always promised myself and my friends that this was it – it was over, I was never going back. But I did. Too many times I did. He would return with his charming words laced with heroin. He would return with flowers and poetry, and songs written in Spanish, promises of happily ever after, detailed lists of how he would love me, champagne kisses, jewelry and art. I look into those bright brown eyes and become intoxicated. The initial high was always so good. But the crashes only got worse. I lost a little bit of myself as I shattered each time it all came tumbling, stumbling down.

And then he came back with an engagement ring. When he proposed we hadn’t seen or spoken to each other for a few months. I was in a new city, with a new phone number, a new job, a new beginning. It was not three weeks into my renaissance, and he had returned with the ring. We met on the street. Seeing him took the wind out of me. We walked to a park. We sat. He started reading something he’d prepared. He said so much. He presented the ring. He wanted to make it right.

When I saw the diamond flashing in the summer sun, I was torn equally in two. One part of me wanted to turn on my heel, walk away, and never ever look back. Another wanted to fall into his arms forever. Instead, I was stuck. I stood, unable to decide between these two equally strong impulses. It was agonizing. But I somehow couldn’t move.

I said yes a few hours later. And we were high for awhile. But of course the euphoria slowly began to evaporate until I was upset enough to give back the ring. I told him that this was not the kind of engagement I wanted, that this was not how it was supposed to feel. We agreed that we still wanted to be together, to make it work. We agreed that we wouldn’t get engaged again until I could say to my friends “he is so good to me,” and mean it. He wanted to hang the ring somewhere we could see it, to remind us of what we were working towards. But I didn’t want to look at it, so I just told him to keep it.

I had given him the ring back about six months before I nearly threw up in that silent meditation hall. He had just moved in with a friend of his who was a notorious playboy and a wild partier. His own nights had become longer and more intense. He was always out, always wasted, always unreliable. I got a cat to have something to direct all of my love towards. Although my roommate was highly allergic, she later told me she let me get the cat because she sensed how desperately I needed this small creature. I needed to get lost in loving something. It couldn’t be him. And I wasn’t ready for it to be me.

After breakfast that retreat morning, I started to feel agitated again. I decided to take my silent, meditative self for a slow walk in the redwood forest that surrounded the monastery. The woods were majestic and powerful, and I hoped they could help me still my stormy mind. I tried to get lost in the beauty around me. But I was flooded with images of us. I was tossed recklessly about by waves of regret, hope, pain, tenderness, and anger until I was seasick. I finally turned off the path and pushed deeper into the forest, walking faster as I did so, looking within and without for something upon which to shore myself. But the emotions would not cease. Until suddenly I stopped walking, leaned against a tree, and threw up my oatmeal in anger. At least it had not happened in the meditation hall.

I remained angry for a large portion of that retreat. There were more furies I had to deal with. But I eventually threw them all off the end of the world. Sometimes wrestling them off one by one. It was exhausting. So I didn’t have much time for enlightenment. When we started speaking again on the final morning of the retreat, we were all asked to share what we had experienced in the silence. But I kept my anger to myself. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to explain that I was still with him, still in this thing.

I ended it (again) a few months later. And went back (again) a few months after that. I continued my asana practice. Sometimes I got angry. Sometimes I cried in child’s pose, sobbed in shoulder stand. But I faced the emotions like those furies in the forest. Then one day I ended it for good. And I never looked back. I am no longer angry. I am still practicing yoga. I am still awed by the emotions my asana and meditation practice allow me to discover. And I am still humbled by what I am learning.