The Modern Brahmacharya.

"I cleaned out my closet," my yoga teacher said. "There's space, again, for the hangers to move." 

"It's a good feeling," I echo. Legs tucked up underneath me on couch, I glance around the house. Cozy. Warm. Inviting.

Enough.

Brahmacharya, once only interpreted as celibacy, is our last yama to talk about. Brahma=truth. And charya=course of conduct. Restraint with the idea that, if we control our desire, our life force, then it can be re-channeled back into our practice.

Now, however, a broader, more modern interpretation has settled into yoga practice. Moderation. Careful evaluation of how (and when) we approach and use all of our senses. A way to deepen our growth and enrichment. Become more spiritual.

Though many yogis may disagree, to me, brahmacharya is also about the amount of things we possess. Moderation of ownership. It is finding that sweet spot where purpose and value settle into nothing more--or less--than enough. Creating an environment free from material excess, which can deplete and exhaust the soul.

Namaste.

Usually softly spoken at the end of yoga class. Maybe even the beginning. Hands in prayer, placed between the brows, the third eye, or at the heart center, where love flows.

Respect. Reverence. Sacredness, passed down from an ancient Indian greeting.

Namaste. I bow to you.  

Ever so more beautiful, though, than this literal translation, are the meanings gleaned from far deeper interpretations. 

I greet the place where you and I are one. 
The divinity within me salutes the divinity within you.
My soul acknowledges your soul.

Or, my favorite: The light within me sees the light within you. An understanding and acceptance of the unique threads that run through all of us, and, at the same time, of the even stronger fibers that connect us. 

A thank you, I suppose you could say. Yes, for coming to class and sharing your practice. But mostly, for just being you.

Namaste.

Kids get it.

People always rave: Kids are fantastic at yoga.

See one kick up to handstand in front of you, and it's nearly impossible to argue. There they are: Limber. Flexible. Balanced. Brave.

But what's also hard to argue is how children seem to naturally embrace concepts inherent to yogic philosophy too. Like being in the moment. Like surrender. Like acceptance.

Yesterday we spent the day at the beach. On our way down the condo stairs, the little boy we'd met at the pool Tuesday stood still on the steps, snorkel in hand, waiting for his mom, dad and brother. 

"You going to the pool?" he asked, squinting up at us. All freckles and sun-kissed cheeks.

"Beach," I answered, holding up our bag. "Waves today. You guys should come out."

Hours later, I spotted him crossing the dunes. Trailing behind his mom. Boogie board balanced on his head. I tiptoed my way across the smattering of shells to say hi, avoiding the jellyfish littering the shore.

As I dodged another blob, I sighed for the millionth time. Eight years I'd stood on this beach. Never, not once, so many jellyfish.

"Where do you think all these came from?" I asked, scanning the water, the horizon, and then pointing with my toe. A little irritated. Upset. Not quite the picture I'd had in my head.

Shrugging, he stooped down to give the jellyfish a good look. "The ocean," he said, tossing his boogie board down on the water.

And off he went. No over-analyzing. No disappointment. 

No worry.

Ancient yama. Modern-day sandals.

I have a pair of gold sandals. Comfortable from the moment I tried them on. I'd say they were in my closet, but, usually, I slip them off just inside the laundry room door, and, there they sit: ready for tomorrow.

About a month ago, I noticed the straps around my ankles had finally stretched too far. Loose on my feet. The metallic has sloughed and peeled in spots, leaving gaps of white. Yellow. Unpretty.

I wore them again anyway. Days and days of stooping mid-walk to reposition the straps so the sandals would stay on my feet. Make it another wear. Another week.

It's time to say goodbye to them, I know. Me, who is no pack rat, cannot seem to toss them in the trash or find a way to re-purpose. Somehow, I look at them and see lunch with an old friend, our last island trip, shoes I can walk a mile in with no blisters.

A bit silly, yes? 

Staring at me in the face is our second-to-last yama, or code of living. Aparigraha. Non-grasping. Non-hoarding. Non-attachment to material possessions.

Modern interpretation of the yama aparigraha does not mean a spare and minimalistic material life. As always with yoga, mindfulness and awareness are in play. Do I need this? Will this serve a purpose? How much is enough? 

But along with not acquiring for acquisition's sake, aparigraha is the separation between our things and who we are. This yama says not to tie our self worth to what we have (or who we know or love). It does not stuff a void or sorrow with materialism. And it does not, in any way, encourage us to form attachments to our possessions. 

Like little gold sandals. Gold sandals I'm tossing away today.... Or maybe tomorrow.