Attached to My Face

by Jill Satterfield

Even with over 20 years of meditation practice, I recently re-discovered just how attached I am to my face. Yes, the pun is that we are all attached to our faces—they are part of our heads. However, what the pun insinuates but doesn't explore is just how emotionally attached I am to my face. Some recent surgery showed me the hidden extent of it.

As I attempt to faithfully see everything as practice, being self reflective, looking over and over at my mind and its habits, I kind of got around seeing this particular fondness for my face as an attachment. I see an aging face for sure—which requires some getting used to—but it has been a surprise to discover what I thought was a simple, unassuming, and perfectly normal preference was underneath a definite attachment in disguise. 

This most recent crack in my human veneer came in the form of more surgery (I’ve lived through at least 21 so far), this time in my mouth, which left me at least (hopefully) temporarily, looking like someone else. When a friend suggested it was worse looking to me than anyone else, I laughed (carefully covering my mouth). When someone suggested no one would notice or care, I couldn't help but say that I didn't think they might not feel that way if it were their face! 

Almost everyone has a body part or physical area of their body that they like the best—hair, hands, legs—and mine was always my smile. I have one of those big, wide, bright smiles. The unsettling part of liking my teeth and smile is that I’ve long had a fear of falling and breaking my teeth. When I was young, a friend of mine fell while ice-skating and her tooth went through her lip and broke. The thought of that turned my stomach. When I learned to ski I was petrified of falling down the slope at high velocity and landing on my face breaking my teeth. So while I skied a little, I didn’t pursue it with any vigor.

About 10 years ago I had a root canal—this was after having only had a single cavity my whole life. A few weeks before I felt anything erupting, I had a prophetic dream  that my tooth was a green mushy aloe plant, which after the pain of the infection, made perfect sense as an image. It was shocking to have work done in my mouth, but at least my smile didn’t suffer. 

Fast-forward 12 years. I was in France when the root of the tooth on which I had the root canal snapped. I had taken a bite of celery and pop. A dentist pulled the tooth and put it temporarily back in with a short pin. I could barely breathe thinking it would come out. And, of course it did, after I moved to Paris. And, of course it had to be the one dinner and day of being a tourist with a friend visiting from New York.

I located a dentist who spoke decent English, and had a replacement tooth made. Suffice it to say that it was not comfortable or aesthetically pleasing, but, I rationalized, I was in Paris, didn’t know more than two or three people, so who would care? You know the reputation of the French and their teeth, and I was there to have the experience, and to write, so most of my time was spent writing alone, with a few hours each day going to museums or wandering solitarily around the city.

Even though no one else cared for a moment about my appearance, I continued to examine my feelings about it—what I was willing to expose, what I wanted to be private and secret—and I got to seeing just how attached I was/am to my face. I was living the example of avidya (delusion), thinking I was my face. I was a prime example of raga, having attachment to my looks, and also dvesa, having an aversion to how I looked. I was the walking textbook for what some of the Yoga Sutras cautioned against!

A couple of months later, I moved to London. There I found a cosmetic dentist who had the nicest office I had ever seen, with beautiful young women in white serving tea off of Haviland porcelain teacups with silver spoons on the side. He put an implant in my mouth and I was ecstatic when, after the swelling went down I looked like myself again, finally! I enjoyed London tremendously, especially feeling myself again and being able to speak the language. When it was time to go home, I returned to New York with renewed vigor and the excitement of being back.

Not more than a month later, the implant became infected and had to be extracted. I was devastated. I worked at being with what was—which was anger, sadness, and blame. Although I knew I had a choice as to how I was feeling, I was caught in a tangle and really having difficulty letting go. In Buddhism this is called upadana, which means clinging. I was indeed clinging to how I used to look.

With old age and sickness close on my coat tails, I realized that I had better relax about this a little. I knew that if I didn’t, I would be suffering non-stop from here on out. I really don't want to suffer any more than is absolutely necessary! There's what's called optional suffering in Buddhism, and I saw how I was adding to that pile.

I had a temporary tooth made; it not only looked temporary, but it sang of “being made.” I tried to hide it, and my smile got smaller. Even though I still used my smile, I rarely let the extent of my entire mouth widen in public, and only to a select few friends would I smiled normally, or only when it was dark. 

I continued to travel and to teach about awareness, about suffering, about meeting what is, and I honestly kept living my messages to the best I was able. I knew in my heart that with time, I would accept what was going on physically more and more, and I did. Slowly.

I moved to California and began to settle in. I was ready to address the possible recovery of my smile with yet another dental surgeon. I developed faith in her, and the time had come to try again, repair the damage, and move on.

The surgery was five hours instead of the planned two, and afterward, I was ill, weakened, swollen, in pain. I hid in my home and read novels, many of them. I took pain meds, slept and barely ate, and didn’t leave my house. This went on for a month. The healing was so slow that my mouth wasn’t ready to accept a (new) temporary tooth—the proteins put into my jaw to re-build bone and the re-arranging of gum left my mouth and face incredibly swollen and painful. Now though, it was show time: I was to go on a retreat and I still had no (front) tooth. I weighed it out, I didn’t want to let anyone I didn’t know see the gap in my mouth, but I also didn’t want to miss the precious opportunity to be on silent retreat, which had always renewed me and has been a refuge.

I went to the retreat. I rarely opened my mouth. There were a couple of times we were asked to speak, and I either didn’t or put my hand over my mouth. During the meditation periods especially, I walked directly into my prideful fire. I was roasting in it; it was burning me and I only had tears to quench the heat. I faced my face and my pride over and over and over again. Sometimes with sorrow, other times with self -pity, and occasionally with anger. But I knew enough about practice to keep doing it no matter what. I didn’t run from my internal pain, even though I metaphorically ran from looking at anyone else to avoid being looked back at. I wanted to disappear physically, but to appear mentally and emotionally.

We all have our little pockets of shadow. Most everyone has a bit of something that hasn't been aired out, and spiritual practice is about finding those crevasses and filling them up with the light of awareness—no matter how slowly, or when, in your lifetime. Working with what is means just that, and life certainly does pitch some fastballs. Not all catches are graceful, but practice shows us that we have a choice about how we feel about things, and that we can pick up and try again.

I don't wish these kinds of lessons on anyone, but for me there have been gems in each one of these small traumas, and at this point I know no matter how difficult something might be, or how much I initially think I can't take it, I do and can, and will. The Yoga Sutras says:

“ II.33 Upon being harassed by negative thoughts, one should cultivate counteracting thoughts.” —translated by Edwin Bryant

(See Cultivating the Opposite for info on pratipaksha bhavanam or cultivating counteracting thoughts.)

And so I re-focus and re-adjust. I'm about to go out now, face forward, smiling inwardly. I've decided that although I still very much care about how I look, it won't prevent me from doing what I want and what is important. This has been about my face, but it is really about what has surfaced in front of my face and facing many unpleasant things. And I've been shown that there is a life that I still want to live in front of me. Optional suffering excluded.

Jill Satterfield is the founder of Vajra Yoga + Meditation, a synthesis of yoga and Buddhism that combines meditation, yoga and contemplative practices. Named “one of the 4 leading yoga and Buddhist teachers in the country” by Shambhala Sun Magazine, Jill has instigated mindful and creative educational programs for over 28 years.

She is also the founder and Director of the School for Compassionate Action: Meditation, Yoga and Educational Support for Communities in Need, a not-for-profit that trains teachers, psychologists and health care providers to integrate mind and body practices into their professions. SCA also provides classes to people in chronic pain, with illness, those suffering from PTSD, and at-risk youth. Jill teaches workshops internationally, is a faculty member of Spirit Rock Meditation Center’s Mindfulness for Yoga Training and the Somatic Training in Marin, California, and is a guest teacher for many other training programs. To find out more about Jill, visit her website vajrayoga.com.

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Spiritual Sanity

by Jill Satterfield

Floating by Melina Meza

Sometimes I think I know something; but more often than not these days, I think I don’t. In fact, I’m finding great ease in not knowing, which is the total opposite of what I used to think. I remember as a child thinking that when I was an adult I would have opinions, but at that point I didn’t have them yet because I was still a kid. I remember working on developing opinions, and it paid off. I felt like I had grown up when I could say something wasn’t good to do, or that this type of clothing was better. I even went so far as to mimic my family’s values about where the best places to live were and what the most honorable vocations were. But now I have way too many opinions and I’m happily letting more and more of them go!

By watching my mind for so many years now, I’ve befriended impermanence and change. Stability in anything except awareness has gone off the wish list, which has made my life more full of ease. This is the sanity and ease of not knowing: being comfortable—not always liking, but being comfortable—with change.

Meeting moments with some sort of fresh and open view is like living on a boogie board—our mental and emotional muscles get more accustomed to being still within movement and know to expect change. We settle less into complacency and dullness, and stay more wakeful and bright. Freedom comes with the ability to not get hooked and pulled in a million directions at the (associatively patterned) whims of our minds. Freedom comes with the ability to be in the present and with not knowing or assuming or deciding what will come next, but riding the proverbial waves of natural moment-to-moment change.

Kindness towards the mind that loves stability and constancy comes from a heart that is already inherently resilient. And our hearts can be coaxed back to being open to change as the way things are. This is where mind, heart, and body are a fantastic team—each supporting each other as different instruments in the same orchestra. A little louder here, softer over there, not so fast here to develop increased harmony and communication. These components of our whole being can support each other at various times and in many ways. We start with just noticing the “I know” mind that might set off the nervous body pattern, which can scare the heart into hiding.

Spiritual sanity is knowing that we don’t always know and then taking a seat in the wisdom of not knowing—even if that looks lame in some people’s eyes. Not claiming to be an expert or guru might not be the best marketing tool or way to brand oneself but it is what can keep us healthy and honest. I’m all for being sane, open, and more childlike in my non-opinions when I can be. My brand may suffer (if I had one) but I sure won’t.

As an experiment in mindfulness try noticing your opinions about yourself as they arise. For instance when you think about yourself, how do you categorize yourself? Gender? Financial status? Race? Vegetarian? Liberal or conservative? Once you notice your definitions of yourself, watch how you respond when you deliberately bring up the opposite. For example, how you relate to someone who eats meat if you are a strict vegetarian or how do you feel about the Tea Party if you are a liberal? Does a fire in your belly flame up? These are rather simplistic examples, but are some that we might just be on autopilot about. The point, really, is to notice what we have previously unnoticed so that we can begin to make choices about what opinions and views we keep and why, and what we let go of because they block a potentially open and unencumbered view.

Opinions, perspectives, and view points are all really useful in our relative existence if we can have them and hold them so lightly that they might be gone at any moment. Entering into every moment with an open mind might not be totally possible for those of us not yet enlightened, but we can do our best to be lightened in our suffering load. Spiritual maturity then becomes holding less and less, and being open to much, much more.

When you demand nothing of the world, nor of God, when you want nothing, seek nothing, expect nothing, then the supreme state will come to you uninvited and unexpected. —Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj 

Jill Satterfield is the founder of Vajra Yoga + Meditation, a synthesis of yoga and Buddhism that combines meditation, yoga and contemplative practices. Named “one of the 4 leading yoga and Buddhist teachers in the country” by Shambhala Sun Magazine, Jill has instigated mindful and creative educational programs for over 28 years.

She is also the founder and Director of the School for Compassionate Action: Meditation, Yoga and Educational Support for Communities in Need, a not-for-profit that trains teachers, psychologists and health care providers to integrate mind and body practices into their professions. SCA also provides classes to people in chronic pain, with illness, those suffering from PTSD, and at-risk youth. Jill teaches workshops internationally, is a faculty member of Spirit Rock Meditation Center’s Mindfulness for Yoga Training and the Somatic Training in Marin, California, and is a guest teacher for many other training programs. To find out more about Jill, visit her website vajrayoga.com.

When Red Flags Should Be Raised: Yoga Snake Oil

by Jill Satterfield

Ochre and Red on Red by Mark Rothko*

As yoga grows in popularity, it also breeds abundant misconceptions and snake oil claims. The love and light aspect of many teachers and classes has gone increasingly haywire and has reached unfortunate proportions, leading many into despair and not for good reasons. After hearing so many promises of just three weeks to this or a weekend for that, anyone can think they’ve been pushed out of the human category by not responding as claimed. But when a yoga teacher says something will be a quick fix, our red flags should automatically go up because everything worthwhile takes time to be absorbed and digested.

When I was in my 20’s I was stricken with chronic pain. My gut felt like it had a burning hot knife in it that was twisting and searing all the time. I went from one doctor to another for over 13 years, endured 12 minor and two major surgeries. I also attended countless yoga classes and practiced on my own every day, often for a couple of hours.

And I was the person in class who wept into her forward-bended legs when the teacher I had at the time said this pose will heal this, and this pose will heal that, but only if we did them faithfully every day, for x amount of minutes each time. I was practicing these postures, but I was still in pain, my intestines weren’t functioning, and I was not at all well. Why were these postures not working for me? What was wrong with me? I was haunted by these questions for many years.

In hindsight, I see the error of my questions, not the error of my practice. There was nothing inherently wrong with me, but there was a lot wrong with the teacher’s pronouncements and claims. Nothing cures everyone, and yoga postures are not the be and end all, in spite of what many people enthusiastically think. Old age, sickness and death eventually befalls every one of us, and yoga poses will not change that. 

There are many styles and schools of yoga practice, which is great as we can choose what suits our body and minds the best. Even so, there isn’t just one way to practice, experience or pursue anything, and if we are told that there is, we should look for the closest exit. 

How to choose then, what to listen to, follow or engage in? The Buddha suggested that we not follow his or anyone’s advice unless we have directly experienced its sanity and truth for ourselves. I think this is a sensible rule to abide by. If you are told that any pose will fix or change something and it doesn’t, do not think it is you! And, question the source—what is the benefit in saying something is going to help everyone or that there is the only way to do something? Whoever utters these grand pronouncements needs to experience an injury or illness, or just to spend a little more time on the planet. It is humbling to be in pain, to have your body not behave or look as you would like, and as for aging, well, let’s just say it is very leveling.

Personalizing a yoga practice should begin with deeply listening to your body, noticing how it is feeling that particular moment or day. Turn towards your heart, ask yourself how you are feeling emotionally that day, and check in to your mind to notice its state at that time. By checking in, you automatically begin to set up a union of body, mind and heart. You begin a dialogue, and the more you listen, hear and quietly reflect and experiment, the more your wisdom will flow. Here's a short video by me that you can use to learn to check in:

All this isn’t to say that we don’t need teachers—we most definitely do. But choose your teacher wisely by trying his or her suggestions, and if they work for you, build on them by experimenting at home by yourself and conferring with your teacher when there are questions.

Fortunately, I eventually healed, beyond medical expectations. I did this by meditating deeply in my body, listening, checking in, trying things slowly, practicing over and over, not rushing or pushing or striving and by being very, very kind to myself.

Nothing is wrong with us, any of us. And we can all find beautiful, wise, and compassionate teachers and practices—especially when we walk away from those that don’t help us to feel our best.

Jill Satterfield is the founder of Vajra Yoga + Meditation, a synthesis of yoga and Buddhism that combines meditation, yoga and contemplative practices. Named “one of the 4 leading yoga and Buddhist teachers in the country” by Shambhala Sun Magazine, Jill has instigated mindful and creative educational programs for over 28 years.

She is also the founder and Director of the School for Compassionate Action: Meditation, Yoga and Educational Support for Communities in Need, a not-for-profit that trains teachers, psychologists and health care providers to integrate mind and body practices into their professions. SCA also provides classes to people in chronic pain, with illness, those suffering from PTSD, and at-risk youth. Jill teaches workshops internationally, is a faculty member of Spirit Rock Meditation Center’s Mindfulness for Yoga Training  and the Somatic Training in Marin, California, and is a guest teacher for many other training programs. To find out more about Jill, visit her website vajrayoga.com.

No Control: Watching Your Breath As It Is During Asana

by Jill Satterfield

The Gust of Wind by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

As most yogis know, the breath is a most nuanced and dimensional reflection of our minds. Our breath can be an intimate guide to our psyches, and observing its movements and patterns is a revealing and direct path to understanding our most subtle behavior and disposition. Whether we watch our breath or manipulate it can mean the difference between insights or cover up—and only by practicing both can we surely know for ourselves.

Controlling and Manipulating vs. Letting Go and Observing 

There are many reasons to utilize breath techniques when practicing asana: it deepens a shallow breath, calms the nervous system and mind, and may keep an otherwise wandering mind in check and in the body. But just like the Buddhist parable of a man who constructs a raft to cross over a river and then continues to carry the raft overhead on dry land, it’s as important to be able to utilize a technique as much as it is to be able to let it go. 

Easier said than done. Once we are comfortable utilizing a technique, it becomes a friend and a companion on our path towards being more peaceful, calm, steady, kind. A technique trains the mind to stay on something, such as in meditation, when we watch the natural rhythm of breath to train or tame the wandering mind. So asking this familiar friend not to accompany us can be quite difficult because it has become a habit—skillful, but a habit nonetheless—and letting it go can be wrought with emotions of all kinds. A crutch is a crutch and attachment is attachment, and anything that becomes unconsciously habitual is not liberating; it can act as a shield against seeing what is naturally, without any kind of manipulation or conscious control. We can’t see things as they are if we are constantly fiddling, manipulating, fixing or changing them. As we practice to become more and more free of unconscious patterns, it is an important step in spiritual maturation to examine how we practice, and why. For any technique can keep us contentedly on the surface by enabling us to steer the ship of the mind, rather than observing its path when let loose in the uncharted waters of the unconscious. 

It can radically change a yoga asana practice to be a passive observer of your breath, rather than in any kind of control. In my experience, asking students to let go of a beloved breath technique can illicit everything from anger to sadness to confusion. Many yoga teachers are rather rigid in their instructions of breathing (breath goes from bottom to top, or top to bottom, or is only in this style, or as heavy handed as counting the beats of one inhale, and one exhale). Suggesting that someone just observe breath can be a radical departure to being constantly instructed, but how revealing it can be! 

Notice for instance where your breath goes when you are experiencing an uncomfortable stretch somewhere in a pose. If you have tight hamstrings, this can be obvious. Usually—unless we are trained to be aware of this reaction—the breath will move as far away from a place of discomfort as possible. If your hamstrings are tight, your breath might be high up in your chest. Genetically, we are inclined to quickly remove ourselves from danger, and this is a very skillful habit to have. But, as in many types of patterned behavior that have become unconscious and unquestioned, this reaction is too easily triggered, often to no real benefit. The urge to run from danger or discomfort can turn into a habit of fleeing anything even remotely unpleasant. Our minds are so habitually prone to check out, to find a distraction, or search for something/anything to take away the pain or discomfort that we’ve taken the initially life-prolonging habit a bit too far, over-stressing our system and depleting our life force. 

In the body then, there can be vast areas that we no longer inhabit because of an injury (discomfort), a trauma (discomfort), or tightness (discomfort), and we don’t even recognize that these parts have become off limits energetically, mentally and physically. We avoid these places with both breath and mind, and when practicing a posture we subsequently explore the breath in certain areas while avoiding others. But as breath and mind ride together we have the opportunity to recognize the areas of the body we aren’t consciously connecting to. 

Direct Experience Exercise

Practice three different postures that you like and are relatively easy for you. Hold each pose for five to ten breaths. While in each posture pay close attention to your breath—where it is full and easy, where it isn’t. After each posture, reflect and note (either mentally or write it down) before moving on to the next pose. Eventually you may notice a pattern.

If noticing the areas into which your breath doesn’t flow is difficult, try breathing into the nooks and crannies of each posture, for instance, the inside rim of each hip, behind your heart, the right side of your ribs, your kidney area, or the bottom of your pelvic bowl. Be as inquisitive and investigative as possible.

Once you’ve noticed where you don’t breathe so easily, practice poses that open that area of your body, and gently, kindly begin breathing into those areas. Take your time and treat yourself as you would your best friend. If anything emotionally painful comes up, you could try practicing some gentle restorative poses or any other form of conscious relaxation to quiet your nervous system. And if you feel like you’d benefit from talking with someone about it, consider talking with a family member, a friend, or, if you have one, your spiritual teacher or therapist. The tissues of the body hold thoughts and emotions, and we all need support from time to time.

Jill Satterfield is the founder of Vajra Yoga + Meditation, a synthesis of yoga and Buddhism that combines meditation, yoga and contemplative practices. Named “one of the 4 leading yoga and Buddhist teachers in the country” by Shambhala Sun Magazine, Jill has instigated mindful and creative educational programs for over 28 years.

She is also the founder and Director of the School for Compassionate Action: Meditation, Yoga and Educational Support for Communities in Need, a not-for-profit that trains teachers, psychologists and health care providers to integrate mind and body practices into their professions. SCA also provides classes to people in chronic pain, with illness, those suffering from PTSD, and at-risk youth. Jill teaches workshops internationally, is a faculty member of Spirit Rock Meditation Center’s Mindfulness for Yoga Training  and the Somatic Training in Marin, California, and is a guest teacher for many other training programs. To find out more about Jill, visit her website vajrayoga.com.

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