As we practice yoga, we feel a great deal. At the beginning, everything may register as undifferentiated sensation. Overtime, we learn to discern what is strengthening and what is stretching. We also learn to gauge how much effort or ease to apply in each pose. We can even learn how to respond once we realize we have pushed too far. All of these abilities are developed through thorough and consistent observation of ourselves during practice.

When I started meditating and practicing yoga, I did it as a way find answers, and I had so many questions (I still do). After many years of witnessing the contents of my mind,  I feel more able to self–regulate. This offers a certain distance from the world, which initially can be helpful, but not in the long run. During challenging times, this experience has created a feeling of being calm as the ship goes down—like standing on deck with full awareness, waiting for a map that does not exist. 

This weekend we got a proper snow day in New York City. I decided to go for a walk as the snow began to fall lightly. I enjoy doing this because there is always a hush that seems to settle over everything. I can hear the powdery whisper my feet make as I step into the snow. All the hustle and bustle has disappeared from the streets, and I can listen to sounds like this resonating in stillness.

There have been times in meditation when the wandering of the mind comes to a halt. Looking back at these moments, I have realized how much thoughts—much like landmarks in the external world—give us an inner sense of orientation. In the stillness that emerges as mental content dissolves, there is a feeling of being suspended in an empty openness, where even the sense of self fades away.

Every time I share the theme for the week, I make a point of practicing it as much as I can. I have been very busy with school, and as I feel overwhelmed, I remember to come back to śunya, the openness pregnant with emptiness, to ground  and calm myself. I have realized that connecting with it requires a great deal of letting go and surrender.

I lived near the beach when I was in Southern California. One of my favorite things to do every now and then was to go to the beach at night, on a moonless evening. I would walk into the water until I could no longer see the shore or houses behind me. There was a moment when the ocean was calm, completely black, and seemed to merge with the darkness of the sky. Being there felt like being inside a vast, velvety black openness—seemingly empty, yet profoundly present.