In a September garden, tomatoes ripen at a leisurely pace, the vibrant summer green of their leaves mellows. The sun itself, so immediate and demanding in midsummer, seems to step back. And we humans also naturally ease into more tranquil pursuits as daylight hours shorten. Author William Longgood said, ”A late summer garden has a tranquility found no other time of the year.“
As we begin to move inward, September is the perfect time to embark on a yoga and/or meditation practice. The definition of yoga, according to Alistair Shearer’s translation of the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, is “the settling of the mind into silence.” The sutras outline eight limbs of yoga practice, of which asana, the practice of poses, is the third. Others include ethical precepts, personal practices, breathing exercises, refinement of the senses, concentration, meditation and Samadhi (the completely settled mind). Asana practice, like all the other limbs, is meant to support the settling of the mind. Some sutra scholars believe that asana was originally conceived to be just the simple sitting posture for meditation, Sukkhasana. All the other poses were developed to prepare the body for Sukkhasana.
Sukkhasana is often translated as “easy pose.” As anyone who’s practiced meditation likely knows, when you sit in Sukkhasana for any length of time, it is anything but easy. To sit in Sukkhasana for a long meditation period requires the precise physical refinement that comes from practicing all the yoga asanas. I like to think of sukkhasana not so much as an easy pose, but as a pose of ease, a pose with a stable base that creates a tranquil ground for the mind to settle into silence.
In order for Sukkhasana to be easeful, we need to find a position that allows the spine to relax into its natural curves. There are four curves in the spine. Beginning at the bottom of the spine, these are the sacral curve (convex), the lumbar curve (concave), the thoracic curve (convex) and the cervical curve (concave). These curves form a giant “S,” and are necessary for shock absorption and for optimal support of the head and rib cage. When these curves are straightened, we have to employ extra muscular energy to hold our frames upright. This can tire us out, making Sukkhasana a chore.
The key to maintaining your spinal curves in Sukkhasana is making sure you are sitting up high enough so that your pelvis tilts forward. This creates the sacral angle—a 30-degree forward slant—that then allows all the other curves to fall into place. Even if you are very flexible, it is helpful to sit on a stack of blankets or a meditation cushion if you plan to sit in Sukkhasana for pranayama (breathing) or meditation practice.
Begin by stacking a few blankets (or setting up your meditation cushion). If I’m using blankets, I like to turn them so that I’m sitting on a corner of the stack, so that my thighs can easily hang off the edges. You may begin by crossing either leg in front of the other. Note which leg is in front, so that you can switch the cross of your legs next time.
If your knees are jutting up above your hipbones, you likely won’t want to sit in Sukhasana for long meditation or pranayama sessions. When your knees are elevated, your pelvis rolls back, flattening the lumbar curve. Try adding another blanket or cushion under your hips.
Now slowly rock forward and back, allowing your pelvis to tilt gently forward and backward. Try to find your natural center in the pose, the place where your torso feels neutral. Feeling neutral is tricky, however, as neutral is a place of little sensation. It is always much easier to feel extremes, but because Sukkhasana is meant to help us center and quiet for meditation, neutral is the optimum place to be. Here’s how I test whether or not I am in my neutral center: When you are centered in your body, when you press your sit bones down you will feel a gentle rebound or lift up through your body.
Practicing Sukkhasana’s revolved variation can help prepare your back for sitting in Sukkhasana. It also feels great after you’ve sat for a while. Sit in Sukkhasana with your spine in neutral. Turn to the right, placing your left hand on the outside of your right knee. Place your right hand on the floor behind your back and press gently into the floor to help lengthen your spine upward.
As you inhale, feel your spine rising upward, and as you exhale, allow your spine to rotate a bit more. Allow your breath to guide you into the twist rather than using your left arm to force it. Turn your head in the direction of the twist, but not so far that you feel neck strain. Relax your eyes and your brain. Stay for 5 to 10 breaths. Repeat, twisting the opposite direction. Then cross your legs the opposite way and repeat the twist on both sides.

Charlotte Bell teaches yoga and meditation, plays oboe and English horn, and is the author of Mindful Yoga, Mindful Life, published by Rodmell Press. Visit her website at http://www.charlottebellyoga.com.

Charlotte Bell is a longtime yoga teacher, writer and musician living in Salt Lake City. She is a monthly columnist for Catalyst Magazine and is the author of Mindful Yoga, Mindful Life, published by Rodmell Press. A lifelong musician, she plays oboe and English horn in the Salt Lake Symphony, Red Rock Rondo and blue haiku.

Last week I spent four days on the Colorado River as it winds its way through Canyonlands National Park. I’ve traveled this route before, but it was not at all the same trip. Sure, the cliffs, mesas and hoodoos have been here all along. Both times the river was rust-colored with silt. Our talented and spirited Western River Expeditions girl guides followed a familiar framework for scheduling, meals and safety. But the canyon’s own surprises; the stubborn indolence of technology; and the small, diverse group of powerful women who populated this particular adventure made the trip an unpredictable, soul-satisfying experience.

It was a trip of firsts. First among these was the weather, which refused to cooperate with our trip leader Kristina’s insistence that in the unlikely event of overnight rain, it would be a quick 20-minute blow-over. She assured us we could likely wait out a squall by wrapping up burrito-style in our tarps. No tent necessary. Our first night’s rain careened from a gentle patter to a percussive deluge—and it lasted all night long. Even our guides reluctantly erected a tent after a few hours. For one of them this was a first in her three-year history with the company. For the other two, it was only their second tent stay on the river.

Further, it rained each day of the trip. In most cases, a rain-filled vacation is considered ruinous. But river trips are all about water. If you prefer staying dry, it’s best you skip the trip. (This also goes for folks who don’t like to get dirty.) The river cools on hot days and provides silty-water baths that nonetheless make you feel pretty darn fresh after a day of slathering on sticky sunscreen mixed with sand and sweat. And when you’re going through Class III to Class V rapids, it’s impossible to stay dry. While the rain—and the slippery, muddy slopes that go with it—created some inconvenience (have you ever tried to put up a tent with quarter-teaspoon-sized raindrops pelting you?), it also obliterated the predicted 105- to 107-degree temperatures. The rain also produced another first:  a dramatic temporary waterfall caused by a flash flood in a side canyon. Our guides, who had camped dozens of times in this place, had never seen a waterfall here. Ahhhh, rain.

Another first:  multiple technology failures. Even the most stalwart, anti-motor river companies use a motor to travel the last 25 miles of the Cataract trip. These last miles are on Lake Powell, where there is no current, and there’s often a headwind that makes rowing futile. Both our motors struck out on the last day. After changing out motors and fuel lines, our guides determined that while our spare motor was likely okay, neither of our two fuel lines was functioning. Motoring became a two-woman job. One guided the raft (a flotilla of all three of our 18-foot rafts lashed together) while the other fed fuel into the motor manually. It was not long before we ran out of gas, another first. With no satellite-phone service, we snailed along to the rhythm of the oars until a party of guys enjoying the canyon with Adrift Adventures motored by and lent us a functioning fuel line and a fresh can of gas. We emerged from the canyon an hour-and-a-half after our predicted time. In our normal, schedule-bound lives, this would be unacceptable. But after four days on river time, we all enjoyed the chance to continue in each other’s company and in the presence of the spectacular Glen Canyon cliffs. Temperamental technology brought another unexpected gift:  Because we returned late to the takeout, I elected not to drive back to Salt Lake City that night. Instead, I met my river cohorts for a satisfying Mexican dinner in Moab.

For me there was yet another first:  All the guests and guides practiced yoga. I was hired by Western River Expeditions back in 2002 to teach yoga on their women’s trips. I’m happy to say I’ve been able to do this on all but three of their trips since then—four in Desolation Canyon and two in Cataract Canyon. Small but mighty, the 2010 women’s group was the most cohesive I’ve experienced. Everyone enjoyed getting to know everyone else. The spirit of cooperation and friendship was overwhelming, as women ranging in age from early-20s to late 50s, guides and passengers, came together as a community to enjoy conversation and laughter. And we practiced yoga as a community as well.

The yoga experience-level varied. Some had practiced for many years, and at least one woman, a guide, was practicing for the first time. With no props but Western River-supplied mats and tarps, and the soft earth and expansive sky, we relaxed muscles taut from fire lines and sleeping on cots. We breathed the rain-washed air. We settled into the welcoming sand.

But the formal yoga sessions were not the only yoga of the trip. The poses themselves were only a small part. I observed all the passengers and guides, each in her own way, express equanimity and humor in the face of our often uncomfortable circumstances. Patanjali’s describe asana practice in these three verses:  Sutras 2.46-48. They say—and I’m paraphrasing:  When we have come to stability and comfort in our asana, we can let go of effort. When we let go of effort, our minds can relax into the Infinite. (This is the yogic definition of mastery of asana, not performing “perfect” or “advanced” poses.) When this happens, we are no longer upset by the play of opposites in our lives. An extraordinary and inspiring claim for a body-oriented practice.

A common river cliche espouses the philosophy of “going with the flow.” In a way, going with the flow, no matter what obstacles present themselves, is the place we come to in practice. While we can’t control things like rain, technology failures, mosquitoes and dangerous rocks on the river; or disappointments, tragedies or triumphs in our lives, we can moderate our response to them. This is what yoga asana is designed to do. It helps us tread the middle way among the many ups and downs we will inevitably experience in our lives. This is its gift in pursuit of yoga’s highest intention:  the settling of the mind into silence.

I am grateful to the yogic women of the 2010 Cataract Canyon—yoga-experienced and not—for their steadiness, comfort and levity throughout the river trip of firsts. And I’m grateful for the gift of these firsts, that they remind me of the unknown jewels that reveal themselves whenever we choose to venture into uncomfortable territory.

Charlotte Bell has practiced yoga since 1982 and meditation since 1986. She writes a monthly column for Catalyst Magazine and is the author of the book Mindful Yoga, Mindful Life published by Rodmell Press. A lifelong musician, she plays oboe and English horn in the Salt Lake Symphony, Red Rock Rondo and blue haiku. She lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, where she enjoys the mountains and desert wilderness.

Ancient Greeks and Romans first identified the dog days. According to the Old Farmer’s Almanac, they run from July 3^rd to August 11^th, although other sources say they begin as early as June 23^rd and end in September. During the dog days, Sirius the Dog Star—named for its distinction as the brightest star in the constellation, Canis Major—rose and set with the sun.

The midsummer prominence of Sirius—also the brightest star in the sky—was thought to cause the season’s withering heat. In his Clavis Calendarium, John Henry Brady called it a time “when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies.” Whether you’re bordering on hysterics or just feeling fried, a little yogic hair of the dog may restore your vitality.

Adho Mukha Svanasana, commonly known as Downward Facing Dog Pose or simply Dog Pose, is arguably the most ubiquitous of poses. Yoga teacher Donna Farhi calls it the “‘garlic’ of yoga poses—a panacea for whatever ails you.” Dog Pose is simultaneously an inversion, an arm balance, a forward bend and a restorative pose. It opens your shoulders, strengthens your arms, lengthens your spine, stretches your legs, inverts your internal organs and nourishes your brain. It invigorates and calms. For dogs and cats, Dog Pose is the equivalent of a morning cuppa, a remedy that clears sleep-induced physical and mental cobwebs.

Dog Pose is most beneficial when we align our bodies so that the lines of force from the hands to the sit bones, and from the heels to the sit bones are continuous and unbroken. In either Dog or Wall Dog (see photos), our own bodies give reliable alignment feedback. When you are aligned, pressing your hands into the floor or wall will cause your sit bones to rise upward (or backward). The same will happen when you press your feet into the floor.

Begin on hands and knees. Root the palms of your hands evenly into the floor, and spread and stretch your fingers. As a short warm-up, bow your spine upward, drawing your navel toward your spine, rounding your back, and letting your head hang (Cat Pose). Then draw your spine into your back, letting your back sway, and look straight ahead (Cow Pose). Repeat this alternation several times, coordinating your movements with your breathing. Return to neutral.

On an exhalation, round your spine upward into Cat Pose. As your navel and abdominal organs draw into your back, let that movement propel your body upward as you straighten your arms and reach your pelvis up toward the sky. With your knees generously bent, now straighten your spine, lengthening out through your arms as you root your hands and fingers so that your sit bones become the apex of your pose. Widen your shoulder blades outward and lengthen the back of your neck. Gradually begin to straighten your legs, maintaining the continuous line of extension you’ve formed in your upper body.

Note that in the photo, my heels are on a wedge rather than on the ground. My overdeveloped calves won’t allow my heels to reach the ground without compromising my spinal integrity. I compromise by letting my heels lift—with or without a wedge.

Take care not to overextend your spine and collapse your rib cage toward the floor. Instead, draw your abdominal organs back into your back, giving frontal support to your spine, so that the line from your hands to your pelvis is continuous and your front, back and internal bodies are stretching equally. Avoid collapsing into your shoulders, bringing your head close to or onto the floor. When you collapse, your upper body’s continuity breaks at the shoulders, inhibiting the flow of force from your hands to your hips. This weakens your arms and causes your weight to fall into your hands and wrists. Lifting your shoulders will restore integrity to your pose.

Your first Dog Pose of the day is a great opportunity to play. Pump your legs, alternately bending one and stretching the other. Twist and turn. When you do settle into your pose, let all your joints be malleable and mobile, and breathe deeply, letting your body dance around the wavelike motion of your breath. Stay five to ten breaths before returning to all fours.

Ubiquitous as it is, Dog Pose is not for everyone. If you have carpal tunnel syndrome, glaucoma, detached retina, uncontrolled high blood pressure or disc problems, practice Wall Dog instead. Wall Dog feels great for anyone, flexible or inflexible. I practice it with my hands on the countertop while I boil my morning tea water. It’s a great pick-me-up in the middle of a long day at the computer or at rest areas on road trips.

When I watch my cats do Dog Pose, their pleasure is palpable. Their whole bodies vibrate with life. When we humans do it, it often looks and feels as if we are forcing and struggling. Relax. There is no “final” position to attain. Let your pose move and vibrate. Let your revitalizing breath flow through.

Charlotte Bell has taught yoga and meditation along the Wasatch Front and beyond since 1986. She plays oboe and English horn in the Salt Lake Symphony, Red Rock Rondo and blue haiku. She is the author of the book, Mindful Yoga, Mindful Life. See more at www.charlottebellyoga.com.

If you’ve ever been to Telluride, you will know I’m not exaggerating when I say that this picturesque little hamlet sits in one of the most gorgeous box canyons anywhere. The whole experience was stunning—the scenery, the amazing musicianship, the unusual musical collaborations, the beatific crowd. I haven’t missed a Telluride Bluegrass Festival since then.

No matter where I’m working or living, I make time in my schedule for Telluride. The third week of June is off limits to anything else. Many times I don’t bother to visit the website to look at the roster of musicians before the festival. I just know that it will be phenomenal, and I’ve never been disappointed.

In 1984, I began a working relationship with the festival. My husband at the time wrote a pre-festival promotional article for a local independent, and I shot photos. This gained us access to the press area in front of the stage, more notoriously known as the “poser’s pit.” Being able to see the musicians—their flying fingers and accompanying facial gestures, as well as their entertaining off-mic banter drew me in. I continued shooting photos for seven years, produced their festival program for four years, and have written feature articles in the program since the early 1990s.

I’ve come to know the production, security and backstage crews, as well as some of the musicians whose talents often leave me stunned. In the past 28 years, the luckiest of these have aged and mellowed; others have passed on. This year, I was sad to learn that one of my favorite Telluride characters, Jack Carey, a longtime press pit security guy, lost his life not long after the 2009 festival in a bicycle accident involving a head-on crash with a pickup truck.

In April of each year, I get to research and write two or more articles for the festival program. I love this because it puts me in my “festival head” two months before the event. Most of my research involves talking with people who likewise cherish the festival. The joy and anticipation are contagious. From that point until the time I round Society Turn on the road into town, I think of my upcoming trip to Telluride and smile.

This year I was honored to write about one of my favorite festival regulars, Peter Rowan. I met Peter in 1994. Like me, Peter practices Buddhism, and we’ve had a number of interesting conversations about the nature of life and practice. No matter what he chooses to present at Telluride—and it changes from year to year—his music has a spiritual undertow that resonates profoundly with my own musical sensibilities.

For his 2010 festival appearance, Peter would reunite with four other venerable Telluride regulars—Sam Bush, Jerry Douglas, Viktor Krauss and Larry Atamanuik—to play as Crucial Country. Crucial Country’s last appearance was in 1994, and it’s no exaggeration to say this set of music was transcendent. I was not alone in experiencing this. Planet Bluegrass, the company that produces the festival, made Crucial Country’s 1994 set available on CD. Even Sam Bush, who just celebrated his 36th Telluride, told me he left the stage thinking it was the most fun he’d ever had playing the festival.

From many years of seeing the Grateful Dead, I know that sometimes the magic happens, and sometimes it doesn’t. I know that no truly magical event can ever be reproduced. I’m also clear about the fact that expectation breeds disappointment. So while I wasn’t expecting this year’s Crucial Country experience to be a carbon copy of 1994’s, I can’t honestly say I was not without some glimmer of anticipation.

Whatever anticipation I might have been feeling crashed when I woke up Friday morning, the day of the Crucial Country set (as well as another of my favorites, Hot Rize), with a sour stomach and chills. I felt truly awful, wanting nothing more than to be horizontal, wrapped in blankets to ease the shivers while sipping ginger tea.

The internal conflict was overwhelming. I didn’t want to miss a moment of music—and there was lots to look forward to that day—yet I didn’t see how I could walk to the festival and then sit in the blistering high-altitude sun for hours when I was struggling to sit up in bed. Not wanting to miss the day’s opener, cellist Ben Sollee, I went. I loved his music, but my body was just too weak. I walked back to my room and slept for three hours.

In the hours of fitful rest, each awakening brought the question of whether I’d go back to the festival at all that day. Most of the time the answer was no. When my partner, Phillip, returned to the room for a brief respite, he encouraged me to return just for Crucial Country and Hot Rize. I vacillated endlessly, mainly because I wasn’t sure I had the strength for the walk to the festival grounds. And what if I got there and felt so bad I couldn’t walk back?

We made it to the press pit just in time for the start of Crucial Country. I dearly wished to enjoy the show, but I didn’t have the energy even to tap my foot. My body was freezing, even as most of the 10,000 souls on the field were boiling in the midafternoon sun. About three songs into the show, longing to be supine again, I whispered to Phillip that I needed to leave. “After this song,” I said. Then it occurred to me that I wasn’t sure I could walk back. I was that weak.

Then I gave up. i closed my eyes and let go of any effort to relate the music in any of the ways that were familiar to me. The sound washed through me. I heard with my cells rather than with my ears, and in this let-go state, my body began to heal. I could feel the cell tides turning. I was transparent—just music and nothing else.

By the end of the Crucial Country set, I knew I had the energy to stay for Hot Rize. During the Hot Rize set, I found my feet spontaneously tapping once again.

So again, Crucial Country was a transformative experience for me. Was it the music? Was it the fact that I was willing to let the whole thing go? Or was it coincidence that I began to feel better at precisely the point when I did? I can’t say. But as a musician and lover of sound, I can’t say that the combination of tones coursing through my cells didn’t change things at some fundamental, pranic level.

Saturday and Sunday, my healing continued, slowly but steadily. Even as I write this on Tuesday, I feel the residual effects of whatever bug invaded my intestines on Friday. In yogic terms, I can feel that my annamaya kosha (physical body) is still compromised. But the residue of the beauty of Telluride, the reunions with old friends, and the transcendent power of music have nourished my pranamaya (pranic), manomaya (mental/emotional), vijnanamaya (insight and intellect) and anandamaya (bliss) koshas. I am transformed not in spite of, but because of the multilevel shake-up that illness always brings. And I am grateful for the healing power of mountains and music.

Charlotte Bell began practicing yoga in 1982 and has taught in Utah and the intermountain West since 1986. A lifelong musician, she plays oboe and English horn in the Salt Lake Symphony, Red Rock Rondo and blue haiku. She writes a regular column for Catalyst Magazine and is the author of the book Mindful Yoga, Mindful Life, published by Rodmell Press.

Charlotte Bell is a yoga teacher, writer and musician who has taught yoga since 1986. She is the author of the book, Mindful Yoga, Mindful Life, published by Rodmell Press.

I wrote this story in 2004, following a visit to my mother. This year was my second Mother’s Day since her passing in March of 2009. May we all celebrate all our mothers have given us.

A half-gallon of curdled milk, a partially eaten veggie wrap, a petrified orange, a plastic bag filled with dark green cucumber slime. These are the relics of a previous life I cleared out of my mother’s refrigerator last Memorial Day weekend. Under normal circumstances, my practical and frugal Depression-era mother would never leave edible food to fester in her fridge. In mid-March everything changed. On a fragrant, Alabama spring day while watering her beloved pansies, she lost balance, fell and fractured her pelvis. She has not yet returned to her home.

A consistent walker for most of her life, my mother can no longer negotiate the fifteen precipitous steps leading to her front door. Four stacks of unopened mail—minus important bills which my sister has culled from the piles-—cover her dining room table. A pencil sketch rests on her easel, awaiting her watercolor brush to bring it to life. A grocery list sits on her kitchen counter. In a single instant a daily routine honed through years of living vanished.

In the wake of her accident, my mother is gradually defining a new model for her day-to-day life. Recasting a life that shifted so abruptly is not easy for an 85-year-old person. In my mother I now see a stubborn resistance to the change her circumstances have wrought. During my visit I heard wistful, wry reminiscences of her former vitality. I heard frustrated speeches against aging. An unspoken uncertainty colored our conversations. She did not speak about what her life might look like in a month or a year, but I knew she was wondering.

When we experience a loss, whether it be the loss of a friend or family member, a loss of a job, a change in our health, or the end of a way of life, it is natural to mourn. It is nearly impossible not to wonder how much easier or better our lives might be had our circumstances continued as usual. But the reality of living is that our lives change constantly. Without loss it would be impossible to grow. It is letting go of the old, that which is no longer needed, that makes room in our lives for whatever is to come.

Since the 1920s my mother has let go of a lot. A lifelong artist, my mother began her career before entering grade school, copying renderings of caricatures she found in books. During grade school she drew paper dolls for herself and her friends. In high school and college she gave up paper dolls for figure drawing. Later on, this art form would evolve into a career as a fashion artist for an upscale Cincinnati department store. Still later, she would give up her career in commercial art to return to drawing paper dolls for her three daughters, and to design and paint sets and costumes for school plays. Finally, as she released us into the world, her art would blossom, evolving from tightly representational oil paintings to fluidly rendered, award-winning watercolor studies of shadow and light. She can no more easily return to copying caricatures than she can return to her childhood body.

Our very lives are a continuum of receiving, releasing, receiving and releasing. Thousands of times each day our bodies naturally draw in and release the breath. When we inhale we receive the vital oxygen that enlivens all the cells of our bodies. When we exhale we expel toxic waste in the form of carbon dioxide. What would happen to our bodies if we only inhaled? What if we chose only to accumulate and never to let go?

When Chogyal Rinpoche, author of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, spoke in Salt Lake several years ago, he made a statement that has stayed with me. He said, “Freedom does not come from acquisition. It comes from letting go.” In the same way the long since perished vegetables in our refrigerator occupy space that could be filled with fresh, vital foods, the habits we grasp onto for security stultify us. We can not move forward in our lives when we cling to the past. When we set our habits, our beliefs and our ways of living in concrete, we become trapped by them. Letting go of what is no longer appropriate in our lives releases us to all possibilities.

No matter how affectionately we might recall our youth, would we really want to go back? Early in my yoga study, I practiced intensely and attained the strength, flexibility and technique required to accomplish many of the most advanced yogasanas. Twenty years later, even though I might fondly remember those times of physical accomplishment, would I really want to return? What I have let go in terms of extreme practice has made room for a more mature, more satisfying awareness of the subtle energies that govern my body’s essential vitality. As a result my practice has gained integrity, and my body has become stronger and more balanced.

As we live and grow, our understanding becomes more refined. Out of the process of continual drawing in and letting go, compassion and wisdom grow. Compassion grows as we experience the sadness that often accompanies letting go. As we come to peace with the reality and rhythm of constant change, wisdom grows. Each forward step on our life ’s path requires us to let go of what is past. The process of living rests in the delicate balance between letting go and starting anew.

Recently as I looked at an ancient black-and-white photo of my mother at age five, I saw that while she is still the same person, she is also different. The same body that animated her spirit as a child carries that spirit today. But in many ways it is not the same body. In the past 80 years that five-year-old frame has grown to adulthood and borne three daughters. Her black hair has turned white, her skin has loosened, her gait has slowed. But I have seen the wise and determined visage of the child in that photograph a thousand times, throughout my mother’s life. The spirit that lives in that completely remodeled body remains intact.

When the young prince, Siddhartha, first ventured out of his gilded palace as a youth, he was faced with what are called the Four Heavenly Messengers. These messengers-—old age, sickness, death and a wandering monk seeking awakening-—called the future Buddha to his destiny as an enlightened teacher. In him the question arose, if our bodies are all subject to old age, sickness and death, where is happiness to be found? In his six years of searching, the Buddha found that happiness was available to everyone, when we let go of searching for it in those things that are not permanent, which is everything in our conditioned experience. When we rely on our bodies, our careers, our friends and family to make us happy, we set ourselves up to suffer. Ultimately all must be released.

In 1993, during a period of my life when I had let go of what seemed like the very foundations of my being, I asked my teacher, Pujari, “If there is nothing for me to hang on to, if everything I love will one day leave, what reason is there to stick around?” He answered: “To live your life fully and completely. To follow your path with loving care and mindful awareness, to learn the freedom of letting go. To develop wisdom and compassion in the process.”

This we can do no matter what the condition of our bodies. The same wise spirit that peered out of my mother’s five-year-old body dwells in her at 85. This spirit, her innate awareness, can guide her and help her to find the joy in this current phase of her life. There is no one that does not have the ability to live in joyful awareness. It resides within and without. It becomes available to us when we choose to live our lives mindfully, when we pay careful attention to our lives as they unfold, rather than dwelling in thoughts of how much better our lives used to be, or how much better our lives would be if only we were richer, more attractive, had a better job or relationship, a nicer car or house. The list of ways we find to put off living joyfully right now is infinite.

My hope for my mother, and for all of us playing out our lives in this time, is that we can learn to dance harmoniously with the rhythm of life, the rhythm of drawing in and letting go. It is helpful to reflect on your own life, recalling the things you once enjoyed that have disappeared from your life. When you released worn-out habits or beliefs, what became available to you? How did you grow from your many experiences of letting go? These reflections can help you to meet the multitude of let-go experiences still to come with wisdom and perhaps even a sense of joy and adventure.

Happiness comes from enjoying your life right now. Pay attention. When we live mindfully, even the most mundane tasks of our daily routine can be joyful. When we give our complete attention to the present realities of our lives there is no residue left to cling to when it is time to let go and move on. Being fully present with our daily process of receiving and releasing brings the equanimity that allows us to flow with the cycles of constant change.