The Oscillating Kite and the Kite Holder Susan Turis

THE OSCILLATING KITE AND THE KITE HOLDER

BY SUSAN TURIS

When I started on the path of teaching yoga, I had no idea that my life was going to change—that I was going

to change. As a student in New York, I was awakened and excited. I felt grateful, curious, and hungry for more. But more than teaching and practicing asana, the study of Patanjali’s philosophy has brought a psychological self-awareness that has been truly transformational.

On several occasions, I’d heard various teachers quote Guruji and share his description of the “kite holder and the oscillating kite”— a metaphor for the seer and the seer’s mind. When I finally experienced my own inner silence and stillness as the kite holder, in contrast to my oscillating and conflicting thoughts as the kite, it entirely changed the way I see the world and myself. My future is still unknown, but I now move in the world with a knowledge and perspective grounded by my experiences in yoga study and practice.

The first group of students I taught was at a senior center, and everyone there needed to sit in a chair. They

Susan Turis teaches a group of impaired adults at the Iyengar Yoga Institute of Brooklyn.

were not physically active, but they were there, and I was eager. I remember trying to fit my experience of contentment from doing asana onto these willing but inflexible bodies. Confusion and conflict arose. What is possible, harmful, helpful? Teacher training offered strict rules and guidelines to shape my teaching, but I found it both demanding and challenging to stick to those guidelines in this context.

Gradually, through the guidance of Mary Dunn, I learned to approach teaching with compassion. Now, 16 years later, many of those students still attend class with me and have become active. They have transformed their relationship to their bodies as I have transformed my skills. I continue to learn from them, and I am grateful to see them return weekly.

Later I began to work with a range of impaired adults, called “patients,” at a private medical day center. These folks were physically challenged in various ways— some experienced mental illness, abuse, strokes, dementia, or a low IQ. After my first class, what stood out was the lift of their chests and their faces after having taken so many deep breaths instead remaining in their more habitual sinking and slouching postures. This excited and inspired me to look forward to the short but connected visits. I was humbled by their open spirits and often child-like expressions of gratitude for the movement, attention, and connections that occurred during class— and of the light and delight that was visible in their transformation after class. That is what kept me coming back to them week after week.

Today, I draw proudly from those early experiences as one of the IYAGNY faculty who teach a group of impaired adults at the Brooklyn Institute.

To the Brooklyn classes, I bring an open mind and heart, and strength of nerve. At first, the classes were unpredictable because any number of students could be medicated and sleepy, have oscillating attention spans, or be impulsive and overactive. When I start a class, I have to ask myself, each time, “Is the temperament of the group charged, heavy, erratic, or even? All of the above?” Now, through time and experience, I can create a comfortable level of predictability so the yoga can come more quickly.

Before class begins, we set up the room for 10 students and an aide, with mats in place for each person. Everyone gets a name tag, and I greet each student with a nod, “hello,” high-five, or a hug because a few people will come right into my space and

Students rest in a supported, seated forward bend.

want to be touched. For others, eye contact is brief— if at all.

As a teacher, I learn a lot as the students assemble and enter into the class. The transition and adjustment to the space brings many of them a newfound freedom and delight, which I can see in their excitement and smiles. The more “seasoned” students often lead the less capable and put them into position, explaining where and how to stand: “No, not on the floor but on the mat... No, turn around— not that way.” I think of them as my helpers. When I step onto the platform, I bring authority, attention, and a new order to the room.

All at once, with sharpness and quickness, I catch their attention for the repetition of jumping into standing poses. An observer outside class once told me that my teaching voice was very different from what she usually heard from me. It is louder, more firm, friendly, elevated, quick. This is my tool to help my students pay attention and stay with me.

I use simple terms for the limbs and room landmarks. “Jump up and spread your arms and legs!” I command and direct them with less emphasis on perfection and more emphasis on attention and direction. I watch their eyes, their breath, their energy. Are they with me? I use verbal acknowledgment and call out their names. “Charles! Are you stretching your fingers? Are you stretching your toes? Are you all stretching your fingers and your toes?”

A student named Ketsia caught my attention because she always seemed to lag behind, to not be in sync with the rest of the class. She would step instead of jump or her elbows would be bent when I repeated over and over for everyone to straighten them. Then one day, I touched my elbow and said, “Here is my elbow. When it looks like this, my arm is bent. Now, I squeeze my elbow, and that straightens my arm.” And that was it! Ketsia hadn’t known where her elbow was. It hadn’t occurred to me before. Her eyes were like round saucers, and she kept her attention wholly on me for the rest of the class.

My aim is to move their limbs, to raise their chests, to fill them with breath, and to catch and maintain their steady attention. I teach the standing asanas for more than half the class, followed by seated chair twists, then onto the floor for rest and recovery. I think Savasana is quite revealing. After I adjust their head position, they begin to settle down. The stillness, the quiet, and the peace is remarkable to witness when so much of their time is spent with movement inside and out.

Gradually they let go from the periphery to the core as their breath steadies and slows, and then a peaceful and quiet lull fills the room. On coming out of Savasana, I sometimes teach them to recite Namaste before ending class. As they pile their mats and blankets on the platform in assembly-line fashion, the wakeful activity returns and so does the oscillating kite— or chatter. But for a few moments, their eyes look clear and alert with a settled calm. A fullness is clearly visible where they remain connected to that kite holder inside.

Susan Turis (Intermediate Junior II) teaches at the Iyengar Yoga Institutes of Brooklyn and New York. Because of her love of philosophy, she now leads the weekly Sutra Study group in New York.