I have been lost in translation in central Japan for the last thirteen months, searching for the presence of yoga in a country where I cannot understand the language.  As I spend my last few weeks here, preparing to come home to the prairies, I reflect on some of my findings.

I sit in the train on the Yamanote Line in central Tokyo, the hum of the train is like a mantra, hmmmmm....ommmmm....hmmmmm.  Looking out the window I see flashes of buildings. People. Houses. People.  I see apartments and businesses and more people. Florescent lights scream words I will never know the meaning of.  The streets are narrow and long, each little car is a box filled with people, food, babies, school books and yoga mats.  Thirty-five million people live in Tokyo, performing thirty-five million different versions of the sun salutation we call life, getting things done, sharing moments, spending time, finding our place. In the train the business men are all sitting peacefully in their seats performing their own asanas: head dropped, spine long, legs perfectly bent.  Their feet pressed immaculately on the floor of the train and their third eye is focused on the heart.  They wear all black: black suit, black hair, black shoes. They are breathing slowly and rhythmically.  Out of touch with their surroundings, they practice their own from of Pratyahara (fifth limb of Yoga-drawing the senses in).  Yet, somewhere in their subconscious they are waiting for the moment the train will stop and lead them home. 

Moving and waiting, I find presence in my breath. A full inhale and I am calm. As I exhale I am brought back to the grandness of this place with a sense of strength and stability. I stand strong in Tadasana as I am about to embark on a new society, a new culture. Crown of the head lifting, I gaze forward out the window and into this new world. 

Japan is a country of asana. The gentle, beautiful graciousness of Uttanasana (ut-intense, tan-extend, asana-connection to the earth) is a part of every interaction between two people. Uttanasana reveals itself as the Japanese bow. The head drops, bending at the hips the heart descends, ego rests, the eyes fall to meet the floor.  In Japan, the bow is a symbol of great honor and thanks.  I am offered this bow endlessly by those thanking me for buying groceries, for stopping my car to allow them to merge, for teaching their children, or for simply being human. I wonder where Uttanasana resides in our (western) human interactions.  Has it been confined and restricted to our yoga mats?

Without the privilege to communicate with others in Japanese, my practice became my confidant.  On my yoga mat in my house in rural Japan, I close my eyes, drop my head and rest in the calm of my own heart. I am home.  365 Savasanas later (after over a year of home-practice)  I hear the sounds of a beautiful Buddhist chant penetrating the neighborhood with a loud speaker. My heart soars at the sounds until the song inquisitively reveals itself as a simple potato song selling Satsuma-Imo (baked sweet potatoes).  My home in Saskatchewan is beckoning me.

Marie Brown
February 23, 2009