In July, doubt rode in with the humid summer air as if on cue. After all, it had not been hiding very well behind June’s curtain.

Indeed, doubt had the audacity to roll into my house with the luggage on the heels of a vacation, just as it had last summer. While my bags remain unpacked nearly a week later, this unwelcome stowaway is busting out all over. Last summer I contained my confusion to my own head and a few private conversations with ashtanga teacher friends– I could not bring myself to share it.

I fear publicly admitting to all this doubt.

What kind of yoga teacher am I—no, and worse– what kind of ashtanga student am I, if I have so much doubt, so habitually? I’m coming out friends: this reticent ashtanga ambassador is something of a charlatan. Indeed, at least once each summer and at least once each deep dark winter, doubt steals my radiance—that’s right, I said at least. I stand on my mat, alone—and that is how I feel. My mind scours the world for possibilities, any-things I could be doing besides this practice right here on this mat.

–a sweaty session at the gym

–a sweaty vinyasa or Bikram class

— a dance class

–a rock climbing session

–a writing exercise

–an eating breakfast exercise

anything but this.

I met someone during my two weeks in Montana who seemed my ashtanga opposite. She discovered mysore the way people in the movies find love– at first sight. (Granted, the leader of her first mysore experience was none other than the Lino Miele.) She immediately rearranged her life. “I told my husband,” she said, “I have to do this.”

I envied her. I cannot even tell you when my ashtanga practice began because it has no beginning – my relationship with ashtanga is a series of fits and starts, flirtations, infatuations, “we are never getting back together, like, ever” times, infidelities, passing glances, reunited-and-it feels-so good-ness — until well, relatively recent smoothed out history. Today, I fancy that if my situation was different—if I had the opportunity to practice with a mysore community everyday instead of mostly home alone and if I did not have certain family obligations to contend with– perhaps I would feel more like this faithful person I had encountered. But who am I kidding? Even when I lived close to a mysore program I was still a bit of a deadbeat. Here even doubt, my unfriendly companion, pauses to pat me on the shoulder — it takes an extra helping of faith when you practice alone as much as you do, my uninvited houseguest offers, or when you’re still nursing a little one.

Feeling lost, some automatic trigger compels me to look outside myself for answers, but I know the answer is already there. Something in me remembers; google defines the hazy spots and pipes in the blanks with a post by David Garrigues:

I was mulling all this over when I saw a low budget sign in front of a fire station. This sign had removable letters so that the firemen could post different messages frequently to keep passersby interested. The message on this day read:

SMALL DOUBT SMALL FAITH
GREAT DOUBT GREAT FAITH

Wow!! Revelation—-Faith does not mean blind faith, easy faith. This caused me to really look within, to see the small ways that I lack faith, to see how frequently and largely I doubt both Spirituality in a collective sense and my own personal relationship to my faith. When I really dig down inside I see that faith is something I have wrestled out of my doubt–one practice at a time–something I’ve agonized over and continue to agonize over especially when it’s time to apply my faith. When you look within I imagine you’ll find your supply of faith is contained in a jar you lovingly fill as you pour energy, unstintingly into your practice. It’s a freeing and powerful realization that having doubt, large or small, is not necessarily a sign of a lack of faith. It could be quite the reverse….

Feeling better, something settles inside me. I think back to my tussle with doubt last summer: I went through this incredible confusion only to come back more resolved than ever. I am handling this current visit with doubt better—the memory is enough to keep me practicing, even if for shorter durations. It is that remembrance of early last winter, after my battle with doubt, when I practiced with zeal and faith and renewed commitment and the world opened for me– that strengthens, reminds, and teaches me that something bright and clear is just around the corner for September, maybe even August.

Just as I already knew the answers to my queries, I already know how the next page in this story starts: I can already begin to make out the words . . . Compassion, love, and

Trust.