| Yoga: The Language of the Heart by:Jane Pahr An American Yogi, practicing and teaching Hatha Yoga in Los Angeles and New York City for many years, I found the spirit of Yoga within my own heart after moving to Italy. In a new language where words were difficult, I've learned even more deeply to trust the Yoga unfolding before my eyes. "Wow, Italy! That's incredible," I heard time and again. I preened like the cat that got the canary in the glow of their amazement. "Yep, Italy," I replied with a smile. Of course the Italy they were thinking about is warm summer days under the Tuscan sun, the Mediteranean seashore or perhaps a bit of culture touring the ancient ruins or listening to opera. I knew, or told myself I knew that vacation time is different than when you actually live somewhere but you know how it is, knowing something isn't the same as experiencing it. People say, "What courage to give up everything and move to a country where you don't know the language with only a place to live and start over again." I never know what to say. It didn't feel courageous. It felt like running for my life which sounds way too dramatic as I write it. Running from what? The comfort of a life that leads to retirement. Sometimes, I feel like a foolish dreamer to imagine living a life that testifies to the ever-present power of spirit with the alchemy of trust and transformation but Yoga is an experience, not a belief where imagination can be a helpful tool. I won't tell you it's been easy or without regret. I will tell you, I wouldn't want to give up the me I've found, to be comfortable. So, how did this story begin? Well, I won't go all the way back just to the day I met my husband Ed in an Introduction to Yoga class I was teaching at the Center for Yoga on Larchmont where I studied then taught for over twenty years. At first I denied the attraction. "Nice but not my type," but then he inquired with a smile, "Isn't t here something in Yoga about being flexible and open to new experience?" and I was hooked. OkayI have to admit finding out that he was born in Italy, had travelled the world and looked so secure in his business suit and expensive car was also an attraction. So much for judging by appearances, his comment proved to be prophetic. Rather than settling into the secure haven of happily ever after our life together seems to be full of drastice change, sometimes rubbing up against each others sharp edges cuts is just as growth producing as the old idea of what mutual support looks like. Love after all is really about truth more than comfort, though the teddy bear effect is also important. Learning to hold each other while letting go, challenging to say the least, became even more so for me when we left the familiar ground to seek a new home. Yoga teaches us to put down roots but also allows us to move. "Yoga is portable, a new adventure," I said full of enthusiasm at the idea. "Aventura Italia here we come!" Ed was unhappy in his management position," I feel like I'm dishonest accepting a paycheck, there's nothing to do." Not many people would complain about an executive position, which if not richly paid, had benefits including a month's vacation time but Ed had begun to paint often waking up in the middle of the night by the creative s pirit. It was a shock to both of us to see them appear, I had always been the creative one now he was showing me a part of him I'd never imagined. As images came forth on the canvas, new horizons opened. We came and stayed often in this house with Zia Ida, his aunt, two doors away from where Ed was born during our summer vacation trips. Ed's ability to speak Italian helped us to travel as well finding inexpensive local places unknown to the typical tourist. I'd picked up a few phrases here and there listening to Berlitz Tapes then practicing. Each time we visited the idea of living here seemed less a vacation fantasy than a possible dream, then Ida died and Ed's cousin Silva said, "Non so che cosa a far e. Voi volete?" This house built by her grandfather then expanded by her father that had become our home away from home was vacant. She couldn't bear to sell it or have strangers here so she offered it to us rent free, an offer we couldn't refuse. We arrived the day after Christmas in the midst of the coldest, wettest winter in fifty years, quite a shock after temperate Los Angeles and our golden memories of the summer Italian sun. Full of the romance of it all, I had no idea how drastic the change would be: living in another culture, speaking another language, far away from the place I'd called home twenty-five years. Then, September 11 changed the world. We stood on street corners together in shocked silence only to scatter into factions as the impossibility of understanding created a void. I was in a daze. "If I feel so alien here," I asked myself, "how could I ever hope to understand people from an Arab world?" I'd been so sure, with my cocky American optimism, "If we could just learn about each other, talk to each other, communicate in some way we all want the same thing, to love and be loved. Through our common humanity or living-beingness we'll find understand ing." I hadn't reckoned on fear and ego, right and wrong, the law of self-preservation at all costs and of course religious and cultural differences along with vested interests. Though living in a foreigh country qualifies us as ex-Pats, I feel more American living here though I'm not so sure of "My country right or wrong." ??Yoga means union but it also means yoke, looking at our attachments and how they prevent connection is a way of detaching the 'yoke' to any one thing. It's a lot more complicated living it than saying it. Good thing yoga is a practice. Practice makes perfect? Well, we're already perfect but there's still some stuff we need to do to clear away the veils. Lots more than I thought when surrounded by people who think like me even if we disagree about lots of things, that every individual is born equal. "One nation, under God, indivisible with liberty and justice for all," has of course been taken out of the schools. We no longer Pledge Allegiance to the Flag, but it's there. When we first arrived "Sono Americana" seemed like the key to the magic kingdom. Just like the 'Wow, Italy'. People became interested, doors opened and the possibilities seemed infinite. I heard that Trieste is a confine, that people here were clannish but it didn't seem so to me. Trieste, on the border of Slovenia has always had its own unique identity. Once the "Jewel of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire", providing their port to the sea after WWI it became part of Italy, a country formed from small city states that still are not quite sure they want to be joined. Here you also find Teatro Romano, a small Roman Theater, Napoleonica a road above the sea created by Napoleon and of course, the place where James Joyce wrote Ulysses. Ed remembers running to the tunnel to take shelter from Allied Bombing, then being liberated as the Allied Forces rode heroically through the streets bringing "FOOD!" The German occupation that followed Mussolini's demise had stripped the cupboards bare. Trieste was almost given to Tito around the negotiating table but he had to settle for the strip of coast along istria. |