“Our intention creates our reality.” Wayne Dyer

Until I took a yoga class, I’d never heard anyone talk about “setting an intention.”

Years ago my father encouraged me to set goals, make outlines, form plans, but he never spoke about setting an intention.

What did my yoga teacher mean, I wondered, when he spoke about setting an intention? What exactly was an intention–was it the same as a goal or something different?– and how did one go about setting it?

In English, the word “intention” is defined as “a course of action that one intends to follow, an aim that guides action, an objective.” It’s a word from the Latin intendere meaning to direct attention or to stretch toward something.

In Sanskrit, the word for intention is Sankalpa, and it’s a representation of a desire or positive thought that you want to manifest in the world, a promise you make to yourself.

At Garden of the Heart Yoga Center where I take yoga classes, my teachers set an intention at the start of each class. The intention for that day’s class might be developing confidence, or nurturing faith, or discovering strength. It might be cultivating kindness or gratitude or mindfulness, qualities that I’d like to learn and bring more fully into my life.

If setting an intention is about reaching toward something–and that something is almost wordless, residing in the deepest part of your heart–then part of setting an intention involves listening carefully to learn what your heart wants, what you desire deeply.

Setting an intention involves identifying a quality or desire and, with skill and care, bringing that thought or desire, that positive value, into your life through actions that reflect that quality or thought or desire.

Here’s what Deepak Chopra says about Sankalpa:

“All creation begins with sankalpa. In pure consciousness there is the first stirring of sankalpa, which evolves into thought and speech, finally leading to that action which is evolutionary. An individual who is established in Being can harness the power of sankalpa to bring about the spontaneous fulfillment of any desire. As the Upanishads state “You are your deepest desire (sankalpa) As is your desire so is your intention. As is your intention so is your will. As is your will so is your deed. As is your deed so is your destiny. (from Beliefnet.com)

So, on some level, our intentions already exist as part of creation, and it’s our work on the mat that helps us come in touch with them. Our poses help us feel the first stirrings, and those stirrings evolve from wordlessness into thought and speech, which in turn compel us to act.

Setting our intention is, in this way, an evolutionary act in that our understanding of our intention evolves over time as we learn to recognize it, and bringing that intention into the world and into our lives helps us evolve into our fullest sense of ourselves.

As Choprak informs us, “You are your deepest desire.”

So, setting your intention is like drawing an arrow from the quiver of your heart.

You aim the arrow at a distant target, a reflection of your heart’s desire, and with care and mindfulness release the bowstring.

And as the arrow flies toward the target, it draws your heart toward its destiny.

Practice Journal: How do you set an intention? Is it different than a goal, a plan, an outline? How? And once you set an intention, how do you sustain it in a pose, or over the length of a class, or throughout the week or month? What do you need to do to maintain your intention? And how do you know when it no longer serves you and it’s time to set a new intention? Consider these questions before, during or after your asana practice, then open your journal and write about the intention(s) that you hope to set in the new year.

On my pre-dawn walks each morning, I gaze up into the dark sky, mesmerized by the moon as it appears in different shapes over the course of a month.

Earlier this week I saw the thinnest sliver of a moon hanging over the rooftops, a fingernail moon, the faintest outline of white drawn around the edge of the sphere’s shadow like a piece of iridescent twine, giving the moon a three-dimensional depth that I don’t recall seeing before.

Its striking appearance in the sky that morning reminded me of how the moon reveals itself in stages, and that the fingernail moon is one of the early stages of growth as the moon passes from stage to stage into fullness.

These stages of moon-growth can serve as models for our own yoga practice and for our lives, too. Each of our poses–whether on our mats or in our lives– begins with the slimmest fissure of light and shines out with all the light that we can muster in that moment.

And each day of the month, as we practice, the light grows stronger and stronger–as much light as that particular pose at that particular time of month will allow–increasing in brightness as our pose comes into fullness.

And then what happens?

We begin the process of growth again with a new pose, a new relationship, a new project, a new job, or a new way of understanding ourselves in a new situation.

Another month, another pose, our light waxing and waning, our intensity and brightness shifting and changing.

There is a beginning, a middle, and an end to each pose, and then there is a new beginning to embark on the process of growth over again.

Each month we trust in the process of the moon unfolding as it gains in brightness and shines out in its full radiance.

We are like the moon, shining brightly, each pose giving us a chance to explore another stage of our practice, both the lighter sides of our selves and the darker shadow sides, as well.

Month after month, the moon sheds its light on our lives as we, too, come into fullness, retreat back into darkness, and come into fullness, again and again.

Practice Journal: How is your yoga practice like the stages of the moon? How do you move into fullness and then become that sliver of a fingernail of light… and then move back into fullness? And how is trust part of the movement back and forth–part of your growth on the mat, your ability to reach into the unknown and explore something new?

Think about trust and how yoga has helped cultivate it in your life and practice over the past year. How has coming to this greater sense of trust changed your life? How might your life change if you learned to trust more in the year ahead?

Write: 10 minutes.

When I first started practicing yoga, I’d stand at the back of the room while my teacher demonstrated a pose that I’d never seen before and silently tell myself that I’d never be able to do it.

I’d laugh nervously, maybe out of fear, maybe out of frustration, and shake my head, and, as the rest of the class began to enter the pose, I found myself working past my low expectations into the pose, too.

Somehow–I still don’t know how–I moved past those low expectations and managed to find my way into the pose.

It might have been Tree Pose. Or Eagle Pose. Or Half Moon. I don’t remember. All I remember are the thoughts that I had when I saw the pose for the first time: “I’ll never be able to do it.”

Self-defeating, negative expectations.

Since then I’ve learned to revise my expectations. Now, as I watch my teacher demonstrate a pose that I haven’t seen before, I no longer tell myself that I’ll never be able to do it.

I watch the way the pose unfolds.

I listen carefully to the description that my teacher offers about where to place my hands, my arms, my legs, my feet.

I say to myself “I may be able to do that pose…” or “I might not be able to do that pose now… but one day I’ll be able to do that pose.”

I know this is true because since beginning my practice I have been able to find my way into poses that at first glance seemed impossible.

It takes time, patience, determination, and realistic expectations.

How do we set realistic expectations for ourselves?

How do we learn to tell the difference between expectations that we set for ourselves and expectations that others set for us?

How do we manage to be ourselves in each pose, rather than trying to conform to expectations?

Our yoga practice and our journal practice can help us be ourselves simply by giving us a chance to notice when our expectations rise too high or when they sink too low so that we can find our balance somewhere between the two.

Practice Journal:

Find your way into Tree Pose. Start with both feet on the floor and lift the heel of one foot and balance it against your ankle, with the toes still on the floor. Notice how low expectations can limit your pose but can also give you greater confidence to go to the next stage? Now try lifting your foot to mid-calf. Then, lift it as high as it’ll go on the inside of your thigh. How does each shift in position change your expectations? Try it again on the second side. Then come out of the pose and write about how changing expectations in each position influenced how you felt about yourself and your ability to do the pose.

My journal is an offering of prayer.

It’s a keep-sake book, holding memories, containing artifacts of days long ago, a record of dreams and desires that may or may never be fulfilled.

It’s a lens reflecting whatever comes under my gaze–whatever I happen to notice at the moment–a collection of things seen, a tribute to passing time.

On some days I fill its pages with gratitude.

On other days I fill it with fears and doubts and uncertainties.

I fill its pages with whatever I might overhear at the grocery store or the movies, whatever I might think about as I’m taking out the trash after dinner or washing dishes or waiting to pick up my daughter after school.

I never know before beginning what I’ll write.

Just like here, on this page, now, I never expected to write these words in this order, but this is what appeared beneath my pen today.

Every day is different.

Part of learning to keep a journal is learning to let go, just as we have to learn to let go of each pose and move into the next one.

Keeping a journal involves learning to accept whatever comes, openly, uncritically, without judgment.

It’s not about thinking in a rational, linear fashion. A journal doesn’t have to be straight-forward. It can meander, backtrack, lose its way.

Keeping a journal is about letting your mind go free, giving your thoughts permission to wander, learning how to circumambulate, make detours, backtrack, and re-examine something that you might have noticed (or might not have noticed) a moment before.

There’s no rush to get anywhere in your journal, no need to be somewhere else.

You just have to learn how to be here.

Writing.

Now.

Practice Journal:

Use your journal today to offer a prayer or to make a list of the things that you are grateful for.

Use it to record your grocery list. Or errands. Or books that you want to read.

Use it to remember what you noticed on your morning walk. Or what you thought about as your poses unfolded on your mat.

Try not to control what happens when you begin to write.

Just let the words come–whatever words want to come–and welcome them.

If words won’t come, just sit quietly and notice your thoughts with your journal open. Perhaps some of your thoughts will make their way onto the page. Perhaps not. You can always try again tomorrow.

Write for 10 minutes. See what happens.

Before stepping onto my mat,
my thoughts swirl.

I feel beset by doubts.

Just stepping onto the mat
helps clear my mind.

It reminds me to focus
on the simplest of actions–
breathing,
blinking,
swallowing.

I can feel a breeze
brush across
my bare feet.

I can feel a calmness
settle over my mind.

Thoughts, running crazily
here and there, come into
near-stillness.

There is peace
where moments ago
all seemed chaotic.

It happens–I don’t know how
or why–as long as I’m willing
to step onto the mat.

That’s all that matters.
Just stepping onto the mat.

Everything flows out of
that one choice.

Practice Journal: What happens when you step onto your mat? How do you feel when you unroll it? And how do you feel when you walk onto it with your bare feet? What feelings arise as you begin your practice? What sensations do you notice? Take a few minutes to write down what you discover.

On my way to the airport last month, I was looking forward to time alone on the flight to work on a new project.

But when I reached the gate, I found two of my neighbors who were scheduled to take the same flight.

So, instead of writing, I ended up talking to them.

It was lovely to find friends at the gate, but I had to remind myself to stop wishing I could be alone, writing. That was the challenge. Could I stay in the moment talking to friends rather than wishing that I was doing something else?

It’s a challenge to be present in each moment, and noticing my feelings of impatience and frustration that morning helped me see how I was missing the moment.

How do we begin to notice each moment of our life?

Each time I step onto my mat to practice, I’m reminded to pay greater attention to each moment.

In Savasana, I lie on my back and listen to the instructor encourage us to let our heels and hips sink into the earth, to let our lips part, to release the tension in the corners of our lips and eyes.

I begin to scan my body in Child Pose, to notice how my neck might feel in Triangle, or how my back might feel in an Intense Forward Bend. Do I feel tense? Stressed? Relaxed?

These questions seep into my life off the mat.

At lunch with a friend or driving to work, I notice when I feel tense or stressed, and I try to relax and ask myself what is causing the tension.

The process of noticing helps me better understand my response in certain situations, such as why I might snap at my daughter when I find her unwashed dishes in the sink, or why I become upset when my wife leaves her teacup on the counter after breakfast instead of putting it in the dishwasher.

Yoga teaches me to ask these questions and to notice when I need to ask them.

On the mat, each pose helps me notice how my body feels. Do I feel resentful when we do backbends because my upper back is so rigid? Do I welcome hip openers because I find them so restful?

Noticing how I respond to these poses helps me move into them with greater ease and skill.

Over time the skill of noticing how I feel in a pose flows naturally into my daily life.

Each moment gives us a new opportunity to notice where (and who) we are as each pose of our life unfolds.

Practice Journal:

How can you become more aware of each moment of your life? How can you learn to notice the smallest details so you can live each moment more fully?

Try starting with the sound of your breath. Sit in a comfortable position and listen to the sound your breath makes as you inhale and exhale. Feel your chest rise and fall. Notice the way your body shifts with each breath. And then close your eyes and notice how shutting your eyes can make you more alert to the sounds around you. What do you hear? Can you stay in the moment or does your mind wander?

Afterward, use your journal to record what you may have noticed and how closing your eyes may have helped increase your ability to move into the moment more fully.

And after your practice, try noticing how you feel at different moments during your day–while sitting at your desk, while driving, while talking to your mother or sister or brother. How do you feel in the moment? And does noticing how you feel help bring you more fully into the moment?

Sometimes it’s hard to accept where I am… on my mat, in my life.

It sneaks up on me, this wanting more, this desire to be different than who I am, this dissatisfaction with who I might be or who I might become.

In Downward Dog, for instance, I’ll notice that my heels don’t touch the mat like the heels of the person doing Downward Dog beside me, or I’ll strain my neck while twisting into Triangle Pose, or lose my balance in the Dancer Pose.

And I’ll think: why can’t I be more flexible?

Or: why can’t I hold my balance?

Or: why can’t my body be different than it is so that my pose appears more graceful, more fluid, more natural?

The same thing happens in life, too.

I’ll be sitting at my desk gazing out the window and my attention will be diverted by a group of bicyclists speeding past in flashy colors and shiny helmets, and I’ll think: why can’t I be outside instead of inside? On a bike instead of behind a desk?

Or I’ll read something that takes my breath away and think: why couldn’t I have written that?

Or I’ll see a TV show about Alaska or Montana or Maine and wonder: why do I live in Florida in the middle of a heat-wave  with a Category 3 hurricane hurtling toward the Gulf?

Thoughts like these flit through my mind and make it hard to accept where I am at the moment.

But, recently, I’ve started noticing these thoughts.

Instead of letting them carry me out of the moment, I try to observe the thoughts–Oh, that’s interesting, I like her writing or ah, wouldn’t it be great to dive into the ocean off the New Jersey shore–and then let them go.

I first started noticing these thoughts on my mat each time I worked my way into a challenging pose. The thoughts arose out of some mysterious place and distracted me from pain, from frustration, from failure. They took me out of the moment.

The thoughts, I realize now, were just thoughts. Illusions. Ways that my mind had devised to keep my self from fully engaging in the world as it is.

Now in Downward Dog, when my heels don’t touch the ground, I try to accept that I can only stretch my hamstrings so far. Maybe one day, if I keep practicing and stretching, my heels will touch the mat, but not today.

I try to accept where I am in each pose. No longer do I compare myself (as much) to the person next to me. No longer do I wish for something different. What I try to remember each time I step on the mat is this: I can be myself. I can find the unique person who I am meant to be in this moment.

Practicing yoga helps me notice the distracting thoughts that arise, and each pose teaches me to let them go and accept where I am.

And writing in my journal helps me learn to accept myself as I truly am … now, in this moment.

Practice Journal: Take a few moments to sit on your mat and notice whether you can accept where you are today. If it’s hard for you to accept where you are right now, make a list of whatever serves as a distraction. Can you explore how the distraction takes you out of the moment? Spend some time in Downward Dog before lowering your knees to rest in Child Pose. Can you accept yourself in Child Pose? How do your expectations in Child Pose differ  from your expectations in Downward Dog? Write about how expectations might stand in the way of your ability to accept wherever you are right now.

Many thanks to my fellow journal-keepers who joined me for a writing workshop at Garden of the Heart Yoga Center in Sarasota a few weeks ago. I’m grateful to each of you for helping me find  things to trust:

Trust that the words will come.
Trust that the process will bring you what you need.
Trust in your ability to think and feel.
Trust that your voice can produce the sounds you need to hear.
Trust the paper on which you write.
Trust the ink flowing from your pen.
Trust the earth on which you sit.
Trust the air you breathe.
Trust the energy flowing through your veins.
Trust your heart to guide you.
Trust your instinct.
Trust your insights.
Trust your self.

Trust the dead skin on your heels will peel away and new skill will grow.
Trust your hair will turn gray (the hair that hasn’t yet fallen out).
Trust you’ll spill your coffee on your desk.
Trust you’ll find a sponge to mop it up.
Trust the police siren to drown out thought.
Trust in silence to restore stillness.
Trust in sunlight to burn your skin.
Trust in moonlight to shine on the surface of the sea.
Trust in hope and faith.
Trust in the waves that crash on shore.
Trust in the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind.
Trust in the green grass.
Trust in the blue of the sky.
Trust in tears to dry.
Trust in your lover’s eye.

Journal Practice: Make a list of the things you trust when you step on your mat.

Practicing yoga is meditation in slow motion, an intersection of mind, heart, and body, a flow of energy.

It is not a race.

Each of our poses is a journey, and we make these journeys with small steps that remind us to slow down and notice the world around us.

The moment that I arrive at the yoga center and step onto my mat, I can feel myself slowing down.

I begin to notice how my breath deepens, how the space between the beats of my heart expands.

As I prepare for class, I can see everyone else slowing down, too.

We chat with each other as we unfold our mats, greet one another as we find blocks, blankets, belts, and take a few moments to find out how the person stretching beside us is doing this week.

Moments before entering class, I noticed drivers on the highway racing past each other while talking on cell phones and ignoring what was in front of them.

But in class, as I begin to warm up with Cat and Dog Tilts and move into a Plank Pose, then a Downward Dog Pose, I find myself noticing every small step that I need to take to move into the poses.

For Cat and Dog Tilts, I notice how I lower my hands and knees to the mat, then arch upward and breathe in before exhaling and lowering my spine.

For Plank Pose, I notice how I extend one leg straight behind me, then the other, and shift my weight to my hands with care to avoid straining my wrists.

For Downward Dog Pose, I notice how I lift my hips slowly into the air and spread my fingers for more stability, and I can feel my hamstrings and calves stretch toward the mat.

Within each pose, small steps, tiny adjustments, help with alignment, balance, and comfort.

A tilt of the head, a twist of the pelvis, a reminder from my teacher to press down an index finger more firmly into the mat.

These are the slow, small steps that we take in order to reach the next stage of the journey into the many poses awaiting us.

The pleasure of yoga for me–one of the many pleasures, I guess–is the chance to slow down and notice these small steps.

Thanks to our yoga practice and our teachers, we can become more aware of the many steps that each of us take to create our poses, our lives.

Journal Practice: The next time that you step onto the mat, try to notice the different steps that you take to move into a pose. What do you see? How can examining these steps help you refine your pose and become more aware of how you feel in any given pose?

Spend a few minutes on the mat exploring different poses. Pay special attention to the steps that you take to move into the pose and the steps you take out of it.

Then write for five minutes describing what you notice. Before you close your journal, ask yourself how becoming aware of these slow, small steps on the mat can translate into increasing awareness in your life off the mat.

Today– April 1, 2011– is the official publication date of Writing Yoga.

It’s a book that I’d never have written if I hadn’t signed up for yoga classes six years ago.

I didn’t “practice” yoga then. I went to class. I listened and watched. I tried to understand how making my body twist and bend would help improve my posture or flexibility. I tried to learn patience in each pose. And faith. But I wouldn’t call it practicing yoga. It was more like learning to practice yoga. But maybe the learning to practice is practicing, something that I didn’t understand then but think I understand now.

My teachers encouraged us to choose a theme for each class. Use that theme, they’d suggest, to deepen your experience on the mat. Keep a beloved relative or friend close to your heart. Or think of a theme, like faith or confidence or love, they’d say, and let that theme inspire you.

By keeping an image or memory of what I loved in my heart while I went through the various poses, somehow I increased my strength, determination, and understanding.

One question that my teacher used to ask us–and still asks us–is: “What do you want to manifest in the universe?” Not what do you want from the universe. But what do you want to give the universe.

On my mat in those classes, sitting with my eyes closed, I would think about what I most wanted to manifest in the world. What did I want to bring to the world? And I heard a quiet voice say: words and stories.

I didn’t know what I wanted to write then. I only knew that I needed to write, needed to hear words and stories. And, more importantly, I needed to hear my own voice.

Call it a wish or a prayer, but as I went through the poses each week, I kept these thoughts in my head. My love for words. My love of stories.

I trusted one day that I would find a way to write, to tell a story. And out of the poses and hopes and dreams–out of the intention that I set early on– emerged a book, like fruit that’s ripened over time.

Welcome to the world, Writing Yoga!

Thanks to my teachers (especially Jaye Martin and Rita Knorr) who taught me how to set an intention for each pose, each practice session, and thanks to everyone at Garden of the Heart Yoga Center for sharing their poses (and their friendship) with me week after week.

And a huge thanks to my editor, Linda Cogozzo, for helping bring the book into the world.

Journal Practice: As you learn to practice, ask yourself what you want to manifest in the universe. Spend a few minutes sitting with that question. Don’t try to answer it. Close your eyes. Let words and thoughts swirl around in your head. Listen to your breath. Listen to the sound of your heart. What is it telling you? Do you want to write a book? Show more kindness to friends? Feel more confident? Listen more carefully? Now open your eyes, reach for your pen and journal, and begin writing about the gift that you’d like to share with others (or just with yourself).