The long, dark days of winter are quickly fading now. The hint of spring is teasing us, playing hide-and-seek. One day cold, one day mild, one day snow, one day almost-warm sunshine. March is that mysterious month of the Equinox, when our planet reaches that miraculous moment of complete balance between darkness and light. Complete balance. But isn't it interesting that it lasts only one day in the spring and one day in the fall -- two days out of 365 in the year. Then, as soon as the spring equinox passes, the world begins its slow march into the light, reaches the solstice -- the height of imbalance - and just as calmly, turns and marches back toward the dark, repeating this cycling over and over, year after year, millennium after millennium.

What can we learn from this constant rolling through balance, imbalance, balance, imbalance? The Taoist tradition tells us that in all of nature, all of life, there really is no such thing as complete balance. They speak instead of Harmonic Imbalance. Think of a pendulum. It swings to its highest point on one side, pauses imperceptibly as if to enjoy the view, then sweeps back down and up to the other side, and back again, over and over. To find the still point in the center and stay there would be to extinguish the life force of the pendulum. Yes, there would be complete balance, but without movement there is no life. So, for the Taoist, the point is not to strive for balance, but for harmonic imbalance. We swing one way, reach the high point, notice that perhaps we've gone a bit too far, then adjust our course and swing back the other way. And maybe, over the years as wisdom grows, the swings can become a bit quieter, calmer, more of a gentle ripple over the still point at the center.

Yoga teaches us that there is a constant interplay between the complementary forces of nature. The great example of this from our asana practice comes in the form of Surya Namaskar -- the Salutation to the Sun series. If you move slowly through this series of flowing postures, you will notice that every upward-reaching, backward-bending posture is immediately balanced by a forward-bending, inward-bowing counter-pose. I like to think of this series as the Salutation to the Sun and Moon. Each time we reach up, bending back, opening our heart, we are honoring the sun. And each bowing down acknowledges the moon. The sun representing the strong, fiery, powerful action-oriented life energy. The energy of will, authentic power, focused effort. The moon brings in the equally powerful energy of surrender, the letting go of will and humbly bowing to the mystery, the unknown, the uncontrollable, the darkness.

In our western culture, the sun energy is worshipped as if it were the only power there is. There is little respect for the mystery that the darkness holds; surrender is equated with weakness, with giving up. But Yoga says they are equally important. Our lives flow back and forth between these two energies -- effort and surrender. The great question becomes: when is effort called for, and when is surrender the wiser choice? This is the great question at the heart of all spiritual traditions. From the Christian tradition we have the beautiful Serenity Prayer: "Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

There are few who would argue that we are living in increasingly dark times. Confusion, aggression, fear and uncertainty seem to fill the air and grow stronger everyday. The challenge that yoga presents us with is this: Can we see this time as just another cycling through the darkness, trusting that the great pendulum of life will once again swing back through the light? Can we walk the sometimes extremely challenging tightrope between effort and surrender? Seeking the wisdom to know when action is called for, and when we need to let go and find peace in knowing there is a larger force at work. Yoga says that this larger force is the force of love. That at the center, the still point, the very origin of being, love is the animating force of the whole universe. Can we align ourselves with this powerful loving force and offer our very lives in its service. And can we seek the kind of landscape vision that allows us to see that everything is part of a larger pattern, a greater truth than each individual story might suggest.

The great Persian poet Rumi speaks of it this way:

"This being human is a guest house. every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all even if they're a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture.

Still treat each guest honorably, he may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond."

Quite a challenge, I know. But really, what else is there to do? We've probably all tried the ranting and raving and cursing and wishing things were different. Does it help? Why not try cultivating the kind of open, humble, full-of-awe approach to life that Walt Whitman had when he said "To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle!"

Happy Spring.

Peace -- Cathy