On humility, and the remote teaching transition

In Purna Yoga, practicing humility is a critical aspect of living yoga. We bow our heads to our heart with humility at the opening of class and bow with gratitude at the end. My teacher, Aadil Palkhivala, encourages us to let the brain be receptive and reminds us that being humble can help us act in totality towards our dharma. Humility is also one of the petals represented in the symbol of the The Mother of Sri Auribindo’s ashram, and is a critical quality described in her writings and in the work of Sri Auribindo; both these figures are part of the lineage of Purna Yoga.

The past few months have forced us all to be more homebound and, in turn, given us more opportunities to practice the yogic principle of svadhyaya (self-study), to reflect upon who we are and recognize all we still have to learn. These weeks in quarantine have rapidly forced many of us to be creative with where we are in our work and our teaching. Like many yoga professionals, I am now part of the ongoing experiment of teaching (and learning) yoga remotely, and living life more attached to screens than ever before. It has been a whirlwind of researching various platforms, experimenting with different ways of teaching, and discovering the immense amount of brain power, administrative flexibility, and consistent energy it takes to teach in a whole new way.

The process has led me to recognize the power and importance of humility even more. Having my classes recorded and available to the public more widely has forced me to be as succinct and clear in my language as possible, and very careful and organized in my sequencing. I have considered the well-being of my students in a whole new way—considering what props they may or may not have, how practicing with children and animals home may shift their practice, how my communication with them through a screen can be limiting. It has also been an exercise in flexibility and humility. Things don’t always work the same way on screen—while one platform like Zoom requires me to mirror them, another like Facebook live mirrors for me (as I discovered in a class recently). While one angle makes it appear that my body is aligned, another completely distorts the view—thus making me even more aware of the imbalances in my own body and the subtle ways that even the tiniest gestures or shifts of a camera can translate in an accurate or unclear way. A simple and quick glance to my side while teaching translates on camera as if I am not paying attention to what I am doing or closely to my students. It has also made me more humble and in some ways more vulnerable. Who knows who is watching that Facebook feed? Who are the invisible lurkers who may observe the class but not actually take it? And even on Zoom, a forum which allows for more of a classroom or studio environment, students I’ve never met have joined the class, and some choose not to be visible with a video option. The process has been an experiment, who knows what the outcome may be of each class?

While in a studio class, there is always some element of the unknown—or of the class evolving as the energies of the group converge. This process has a whole new dimension online. The balance of give and take is not quite there, and I find myself working even harder to imagine what students may need or look closely at the screen for what signals their bodies are giving me. Recently, after recording a class for my students and also for my 500 hour training, I lay in bed for hours wondering why I forgot to include a shoulder opener I meant to do and why, when I missed one part of my plan for the class when it so clearly sedimented in my head beforehand as part of the plan. While multi-tasking is something I usually do well, handling technology while also trying to convey care and nurture my students through a screen and keep a sense of community and spontaneity for us as a group is a task that takes immense focus and energy. Hearing and seeing myself while seeing the little boxes of other faces also demands a shift in the way we know and understand communication. Watching myself on screen is not easy, and watching a live class unfold as captured by the camera, feels particularly daunting. Each facial expression, each shift of tone, and each move of my body appears frozen in time and encapsulated with more power than it would have were we all in a room engaging in a class together. As such, the experience has required more boldness, clarity, flexibility and more resilience than I have mustered for previous yoga teaching sessions.

As many of you know, I am an educator with pedagogical experiences with college students in over 25 different courses over 20 years now. When I was in graduate school, one of my professors, David Bleich, told us that the day we entered a new classroom without the jittery excitement of our nerves was the day to retire. He shared that the nervous energy before teaching was something we needed—it was a reminder that we still cared, and were still impacted by the exchange in the collaboration of a classroom. The nerves I sense before teaching yoga remind me of the nerves of a first day of school—when one has a plan and has created a syllabus, but does not quite know who those new faces will be to share the roadmap with. Teaching online yoga is evolving in the same way that a college classroom community grows organically as the group becomes familiar and topics emerge and grow through discussions. Last month, I met a new group of college students for a summer class on Victorian Literature and Culture that has been taught completely online—an experiment that saddens me since we can’t have the same in person connections or be able to cover as much material. But, the experience of teaching yoga online is reminding me that we can still create a community in the best ways possible through a screen while this is the medium through which we meet. This process is forcing me to progress and rethink the way I usually plan a class, and how I share lectures and create discussions. I have a new window into my students’ lives as we meet in our living rooms and kitchens and as pets or parents make guest appearances. While physical boundaries are wider, the borders between school and domestic spaces have merged—and we are forced to see each other in home surroundings, which creates a new sense of intimacy and connection unlike that in a college classroom.

Lest I wallow in the nervous and perhaps uncertain aspects of this experience, this virtual life has brought so many amazing experiences. I have had online classes students from all around the globe—friends in other time zones who usually cannot join, are now trying yoga for the first time and developing a home practice. My academic life and yoga life have merged even more, as those I know from my scholarly path and now participating in witnessing aspects of my yoga life. I have practiced more yoga in few weeks than I usually do all month—having opportunities to study with my teachers at least daily, if not twice daily. I’ve built even stronger connections with my 500 teacher training crew—many of us are taking classes together and learning to teach online at the same time. Various rooms of the house have become pods of learning and practice as this part of my yoga life—a life that was often displaced from home, whether it was to travel to a training or workshop or walk to a studio—is now deeply embedded at home. Thanks to this experience, I am truly building a home practice—as both teacher and student—and for this I am very grateful.

Wherever these next few weeks or months take us, we will need to bow our heads deeply and humbly with an openness that makes us receptive to change.  We need to retain the creativity and openness we have now, and we need to remember to move forward with humility as we navigate this new world we hardly know.