I had the great privilege to offer pranayama, meditation and yoga asana each morning at the Jungle Yoga Thai Massage Retreat in early January, 2024.
Imagine waking each the morning before the sun. The electricity's not on yet, and there's no need for an alarm clock. The quiet nights are punctuated only by intermittent sounds; even the cicadas seemed to tuck in for the evening's rest under the stars, the comets (sometimes it felt so quiet you might almost hear the cosmic frequencies of the planetary bodies in space).
In the morning, about an hour before sunrise, the animals begin to stir:
Monkeys, birds, the rustling of branches, gentle chatter invites our awakening, becoming more persistent as the moments pass.
If you do sleep through nature's alarm clock, the timid creaking of the dock boards as fellow retreaters mindfully step past, working on Khun David's Challenge "If you can walk to the Shala in the morning without creaking any boards by the end of the week ..." will wake you.
Each morning I arrived early to pour myself some hot tea, already prepared by sweet Phet, with fresh coconut powder and a few anchan flowers. I made my way to the yoga shala and one by one, slowly rolled out 16 mats, placed two blocks, a belt, cushion, and bolster at each space, seeing if even these movements (like the mindful walk across squeaky boards) could be a meditation, inspired by the almost-sunrise coming up way behind the jungle mountains. There was a rhythm here that was palpable, coming from the jungle, the shala rocking softly with the waves or when someone stepped onto the corner of the floating yoga room, tipping it gently under their weight.
As slowly as the sounds crescendoed, the yogis would arrive, sit on their bolster with folded legs, their gaze way beyond me seated at the front of the space, landing on the seastack mountain bathed in the early sun. One at a time they settled in silently, observing our sacred agreement that mornings would honor the sounds of the jungle.
At 7:00, I chimed the tingshas and softly introduced a pranayama practice, but it almost felt blasphemous, my voice cutting through the morning's sacred silence, interrupting the sounds of this magical place. I kept the instruction simple, concise and tried to leave space for the monkeys, the lapping waves, the birds.
Instead of a harmonium there were cicadas, the macaques sang the mantras and the hornbills chanted kirtan in their even-more ancient language.
Pranayama practice dissolved into meditation, and to me, teaching this skilled group (who felt like soul-family, every one of them) evoked a greater depth in my own practice than I've experienced in a long time. Or maybe it was the jungle vibrations that took us all so much deeper into meditation. I wondered: how can so much sound feel so silent?
Tingshas again and half the group just stayed, a silent break before the Asana practice, we all just wanted to soak in the quality of this thing we'd touched that there's no words for. Peace? Depth? Dissolution? Oneness? Remembering ...? I'm still searching for a way to describe how we all seemed to deliquesce, to merge into the thick, expansive atmosphere of this place.
One morning I taught Bhramari Pranayama, the bee-buzzing breath, which is one of my personal favorites as I was curious to explore how our voices would resonate with those of the jungle surrounding us. I shared the mudra with the group, but kept my eyes open for much of the 15 minutes of humming, just until the last few. When I placed my thumbs into my ears, softly closed and covered my eyes with my fingertips, and continued to hum, I was surprised to encounter what looked like three blue-red cymatics plates in front of my softly closed eyes. It was as though I could see the vibrations produced by the people in front of me in the shala, the sounds we all created became visible concentric waveforms behind my eyelids. I assure you there were no psychotropic substances involved, though I momentarily questioned if my butterfly pea tea could have been spiked (a hilarious notion). It was as though a new level of perception opened up for me as I shut down the two other senses.
The beautiful visuals of our collective oscillations carried on until it was time for me to chime the tingshas; I wish I could have stayed there for a much, much longer time. It hasn't happened since.
Asana practice brought more speaking from me; I hoped my voice could harmonize with the jungle, not sound off-pitch against the imperfect perfection of insect and birdsongs.
I wondered: was my voice a little sharp against the softness of the orchestra surrounding us? It took a bit of effort to let those thoughts go (and thankfully I am well-practiced at taming an active mind), remembering what an honor it was to be witness to these humans exploring their breath, their bodies, in this most magnificent place.
This was a group of mixed levels of yoga experience: we had an individual who had never tried yoga or meditation before and we had a professional yoga practitioner who competed internationally, kundalini teachers, a variety of other types of yoga, thai & massage teachers, people with injuries that were healing, people with challenges hearing (above the cicadas, no less!). This is actually one of my favorite dynamics in a live yoga class: the diversity, the challenge of tuning into where everyone is at, offering not only permission but a deep invitation to really slow down enough to listen to what the body needs in the moment, rather than following a chain of cues that work toward a specific form or shape. I love introducing the concept that Michael McColly, one of my first and best yoga teachers from over 20 years ago, shared with me: "Jazz Yoga," he called it, where instead of putting the body into a posture, you listen to the breath, the body and allow the spine, the limbs, the face ... to move in a totally present-moment improvisation.
The yoga I teach now has become almost more of a practice of un-doing, of un-learning what we thought was right and slowing into the presence of now to hear what is being spoken, taught, by the body. At least I hope that is what comes across in how I guide a class. Paired with my near-obsession with anatomical precision and therapeutic postures, my passion for offering hands-on assists and props to support the unique bodies I encounter, I wonder at times how this polarity comes across for the people I am guiding. We teach what we need to learn ourselves, and a blending of the dynamics of precision (or perfectionism?) with surrender is most interesting to me lately.
There were times that the cicadas with their unending high drone were so loud I felt I might have to yell to be heard, which invited a simplicity to my cues, exactitude, clarity. Maybe I didn't have to say anything at all; these sounds evoked a fuller embodiment in my own being as the yoga practice unfolded through me.
In almost every class I've ever taught, I'm surprised when it's already time for Savasana. It's as though when we slow our breath down, time speeds up. This phenomena was heightened in the jungle. The beauty of the retreat was that I didn't have to finish at a precise time: there were days when we had 8 minutes until breakfast and days when we had 30 minutes until breakfast. This always left time for a luxurious Savasana, the posture of the symbolic death of the limited self, the corpse pose, which as a yoga teacher is my very favorite.
This posture of integration is said to be the most important pose in an asana practice. After having activated the muscles, the breath, the nervous system, after having twisted, moved, and nourished the spine, we are asked to deeply rest, to surrender completely, to let go of all effort -- the effort of the body, the mind, and the breath -- all without losing consciousness. Falling asleep is not Savasana. Full conscious awareness while experiencing deep surrender of all aspects of the self is Savasana. This is perhaps also one of the most challenging postures in the yoga asana practice. Which is why I love to teach it.
As I approach each body resting on the floor, I apply my favorite essential oil blend and watch for their lungs to inflate: as they inhale, sometimes a soft smile emerges on their face before I place my hands onto their shoulders and offer offer a gentle, firm pressure, inviting more contact with the earth and a soft opening of the heart. Back home I would sing, or play the Tibetan bowls, or offer cues to deepen during this sacred time of integration. But here, we had a symphony of vibrations from the jungle that transported these beautiful practitioners to somewhere beyond themselves.
I was so fortunate to live and work at a yoga ashram for nearly two years, doing daily practices, pujas, meditation, teaching pranayama & yoga, seva, fire ceremony, kirtan, cooking, cleaning, art, gardening: it was where I met David Roma, the Thai Yoga teacher and organizer of this amazing Jungle Yoga retreat. At the Ashram, there was a quality of effortless effort. The Shakti at that sacred place was so tangible, so supportive, that I never had to prep for a class. I could simply show up, breathe into my heart, inspiration would pour in, and magic would happen; it felt like the classes were being taught through me. I literally never had a 'bad' class at that incredible place.
My experience teaching here in the jungle felt so remarkably similar to the ashram. My tendency is to prepare for a class, to have at least a general outline or a theme or a loose plan. I had even blocked out 8 pages in my travel journal, one for each morning I was teaching yoga, so that I could plan what quote I would read and which pranayama I'd teach, what postures I'd explore. I was thinking I'd connect with David and determine what asana practices would be most supportive of the Thai Massage curriculum for the coming day. But I quickly learned that there was a tangible energy in this jungle yoga space, a different bandwidth of Shakti that I just needed to breathe in, surrender, and show up to. It worked through me in some of the most profound ways.
 I did start the week with my favorite quote:
"The Heart is the Hub of all Sacred Places Go there and Roam in it."
-- Bagavan Nityananda
It was appropriate, as the sounds, smells, sights of the jungle cracked me open. The energy of this place gave me access to deeper parts of my heart than I have encountered so far in this lifetime. The vibrations of the animals, the slow rock of the water, the energies of these incredible humans were tangible, unspoken invitations to explore the vastness of the heart.
What an honor.
More of Jessie's Reflections from the 2024 Jungle Thai Yoga Retreat here.
Register for next year's retreat with David and Jessie before it fills here!
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