Then... something happened. In Sirsasana, or rather, just after Sirsasana, in child's pose. Face to the mat. Tears. Accompanied by a river of memories revealing the importance of a great teacher from my past, an importance that had been lost on me until now. From there, the faces of other influential teachers sprang forth, one after another, and suddenly I found myself looking back on a long line of generous mentors and illuminators with a clarity that unveiled an exciting continuity, a pattern of ascension that I have never recognized before.
|With my sweet and patient mother. I'm helping, see?|
That is what it is, you know, the teaching: self-sacrifice. Perhaps not to the point of death, and surely this is more true in some fields than in others, but I believe it applies to teaching in every level and form. Yoga comes to mind as one of the obvious realms. Many aging teachers, particularly those of the Ashtanga tradition, travel almost constantly. They sacrifice their practice and their bodies so that we may have a chance to save ourselves.
|With Jericho, one of my greatest teachers.|
As I step, once again, into the role of teacher, the inevitability of this cycle is not lost on me. Perhaps this is the shift. I have cultivated my own gifts in fertile ground, nourished by the wisdom of my teachers. I feel a ripening. Perhaps now is the time for harvest, time to share the fruit.
|With David and Shelley, super-teaching team.|