Līlā and the Practice of Wonder

There’s a quote I came across recently, attributed to Ram Dass: “You can do it like it’s a great weight on you, or you can do it like it’s part of the dance.”

I’ve been reflecting on how easy it is to move through modern life carrying everything like a burden. There is so much to do. So many responsibilities. So much pressure to keep moving, keep producing, keep managing. Adult life can feel like an endless stream of tasks: answering emails, planning meals, laundry, appointments, bills, car maintenance.

This past week I noticed that the moment I woke up, my mind immediately clicked into assessment mode: What day is it? What happens today? What needs to happen first? What’s most important? So much time spent in our thinking minds.

Of course, there is real pressure and necessity; many things do need tending.

I have teenage sons now, which means we go through a truly astonishing quantity of food. I feel like I am constantly circling back to the grocery store. And sometimes it feels irritating: another task, another obligation, another thing on the list.

And I’ve stumbled upon a little “hack” that I use sparingly so it still retains some magic: once I’m inside the store, I try to imagine what it would feel like if I had never seen a grocery store before. If I had grown up in another part of the world, or another time period, where food was sourced only from a small local community.

Can you imagine.... walking into this enormous building with aisle after aisle of options. Shelves overflowing with cereals, rice, canned foods, spices... all colorfully packaged. The produce section suddenly seeming wildly, almost absurdly abundant: fruits and vegetables from all over the world, all set out on display waiting for us to place them into our carts.

It’s astounding, really.

And for me this shifts the experience instantly from dreaded chore to something infused with a bit of wonder.

This made me think about the yogic concept of līlā or divine play. The idea that existence itself contains spontaneity, creativity, and movement. That perhaps we are invited not only to survive life, but to participate in it. Not because life is always easy or light. But because there is another way of relating to it besides simply enduring it.

When līlā felt easily accessible.

Last week, as I ducked out of class to grab the cool towels for savasana, I saw a little girl - maybe five years old - walking a few steps ahead of her father down the sidewalk in front of the studio, wearing a princess dress. I think she may even have had a winter coat shoved awkwardly underneath her costume, but you would never have known from her expression. She was completely immersed in the magic of it all... walking with absolute confidence and delight.

And immediately I thought: Ahhhhh..... That’s the energy I want to bring into my day.

This isn't pretending things aren’t hard. This isn't forcing happiness. But it's keeping attuned to remaining open enough to notice beauty, absurdity, delight, wonder.

I think many of us have learned that being serious means being closed. Guarded. Hard. Constantly pushing through. And maybe part of the practice is noticing where we have become so burdened that we stop really seeing the life that is here.

We can practice that on our mats, noticing when we come up against a challenge and the serious mind steps in and makes it more serious.  We can try infusing our practice with more curiosity and joy, or at least try to hold it all a little more lightly.

Sometimes our asana practice can feel like another obligation.  And, sometimes itself helpful to remember that- this, itself is such a gift: to move, to breathe, to inhabit these bodies, to spend time on our mats inside this small intentional playground of experience we curate for ourselves.

As I was pulling together these reflections for the week, I came across Mary Oliver’s poem The Messenger. If you can carve out a quiet moment, please find it and read it slowly. It begins:“My work is loving the world.” What strikes me most is that the poem does not deny difficulty or imperfection. Instead, it reminds us that perhaps the work is to keep returning our attention to what matters. To remain present enough, open enough, to be astonished.