Yoga - the pretzel variety as well the practices such as meditation and God forbid, chanting – was originally on that list of things I resisted because my mother told me they'd be good for me. Hanuman, and the rest of the gallery of gods, belonged in that category of things I dismissed as "boutique shopping in the cultures of the world." Words like devotion, service and spiritual master made me squirm with discomfort, much in the same way the use of the word "discrimination" can rankle the non-yoga crowd at first blush.
And because I've always been a straddler of social landscapes, with one foot in various Latino locales, and the other in various states of the U. S. of A, translation and building bridges have always occupied me, partially born of necessity.
It wasn't until after college, when the life script I'd been following ran out, almost as suddenly as if someone had ripped pen off paper, and my highly developed skills as a sharp-tongued cynic and mistress of the bitchier arts began to wear thin. The currency of outrage only bought an ersatz fortress for my sensitive heart and the questions began piling on. What was a source of fulfillment I could rely on? What food did I need to sustain my journey? And how did I fit with all these folks around me who in turn drove me to despair and admiration but who were also so clearly and tenderly human, just like me?
So began the itch to experience something real and true and juicy. So I came to be in an ashram surrounded by symbols and rituals foreign to me, but experiencing a sense of homecoming so unshakable that despite the Greek chorus of opinions in my head, I knew I'd found my source of sustenance.
My path is my path and I'm grateful to be walking it. It thrills me, challenges me and feeds me. It works for me. I serve this up as your standard disclaimer of "please do not substitute for the advice of a doctor," and to make crystal clear that I'm not here to proselytize or to comment on anyone else's beliefs or practices. I write to make sense of a subject that's held so much of my attention and effort. I offer these musings up in case they may be useful, entertaining or thought-provoking for anyone who cares to stop by this space.
So why Hanuman?
Some eight years into my exploration of yoga, before I had a steady asana practice or ever thought of teaching, I had a dream. I was in a luminous temple of white light and marble. In the hub of this space sat a being in meditation, solid and silent. It was like stepping into a dictionary and experiencing the meaning of love and that "peace which surpasses understanding." The presence of this golden being was so strong that the surrounding details took time to come into focus. First was a candle's flame at the being's feet. Next was the realization that the flame was the offering of a woman in a full pranam. The pranam, or prostration, was so complete that it had the quality of water or oil spilled upon the marble. As I looked at the woman, I saw that her torso was actually bowed over her front leg while her back leg extended behind her in a perfect split.
There was no posture to notice because there was hardly a form distinguishable from the gesture of surrender. There was no I: no performance, no great feat beyond that of an extension toward the light.
It was a while before I realized that the dream featured a variation of Hanumanasana. There was such a posture?! It took a while to connect the asana to what I'd seen in the temple because any time I'd seen anyone "doing the splits," it was accompanied by a sense of omigod, she's doing the splits!!! WOW! Look at him!
Ergo the root of why Hanuman and his asana are such a rich vein of inquiry. Add to that the challenge of actually doing the pose, of moving beyond flexibility into stability (yes, still working on that one!), of not collapsing or cheating by going off center... of going beyond the look at me... I have the temple dream as my North.
And far beyond being a nice pose to work toward or a party trick for my repertoire (yes, I am that vain), I'm starting to suspect that that sweet little monkey-god holds many, many keys.
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