Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Restorative yoga #1 and #2
I have this problem. It’s the “think before you speak” problem.
I have this other problem. It’s the “ Don’t think of pink elephants” problem.
Sometimes your problems can line up is such a way that they compound each other, and ruin a perfectly serviceable moment in your day. Your restorative yoga class, in fact. Of course, sometimes destroying something is the precursor to creating from the rubble. And that moment in between? That is presence. Of course, true to form, I didn’t get that right away. As per my wont, let me walk you through the narrative, and note how the perspective changes as we go along.
Restorative yoga is stretching and relaxing. OK, it’s more than that, or so I’m told. Ostensibly, it is also a deep, beautiful, spiritually enriching experience wherein you reflect, draw perfect attention to your body and your breath, and exercise the types of techniques that lead to perfect, beautiful awareness and a blissful engagement with the moment.
I can’t seem to get the hang of it, but the stretching is nice, I suppose.
My problems manifested pretty immediately. I’m just getting back on the yoga horse after a return from the Mitten, a brief illness, and various other obligations. The first restorative yoga class was just that- it got me back into a practice. Still, it was pretty gentle as a practice goes, which is a nice way of saying ‘boring.’ I was OK with it, but when I showed up for the second class, I was expecting a normal class. Some poses and shit.
Here we get into the first Yoga Platitude, a phrase I capitalize because I think it would do well to document them, and so I intend to. I’ll explain the theory later, but suffice to say, I’m noticing that there are a limited set of yoga standards that all teachers seem to adhere to, be them verbal sound bites repeated in class, or even just habitual practices that seem to permeate every studio.
Here, it was the “End of the Month Restorative Yoga Class.” EVERY studio does this. The last class of the month is always ‘restorative’, and it’s more or less a rule across the board, at least as American yoga goes. I wasn’t expecting it here, though- the YMCA calendar clearly stated a Yoga I class, and I was looking forward to a bit of a workout. It seems as if I have been converted to the American ethic of “yoga as weight loss”, but that seems to be it’s strength, and I’m as malleable as any other consumer. I wanted some exercise.
It also doesn’t help that I’m suspicious. The ‘End of the month restorative yoga class’ feels a hell of a lot like ‘movie day’ in a public school classroom. My first year teaching, I swore I’d never be one of ‘those’ teachers, the ones who fired up the VCR, tweaked the shades, sat at the back of the classroom making sure nobody set fire to anything while I graded papers. I would have exiting and engaging lesson plans each and every day, a model educator.
10 years later, my movie collection is well into double digits, threatening to cross the hundred mark. And you know what? It’s OK. Sometimes the kids need a break as much as you do, and a good ole’ fashioned nature documentary with excellent footage of death and sex on the African Savanna is just the thing on a Friday. Still, call it what it is. Restorative? Yes. A content-heavy problem-solving inquiry workshop, geared toward active student engagement? Not so much.
Restorative Yoga on it’s own feels like a release, a nod to the fact that we all need a day off. Restorative Yoga paired with instructions to be mindful of the ‘most difficult of yoga techniques, the calming of the mind’ feels like you just got a handout of busy work questions to go along with the movie.
When the teacher, as we all filed in and began setting up our various little stations, mentioned that it was almost February and that we would have a gentle practice today, I responded in the true colors of problem #1 (think before you speak). I’m sure I rolled my eyes as I said, too loudly
I didn’t intend for anyone to hear it. I wasn’t thinking. It was an internal response, made public before I could even consider the repercussions. Unfortunately, she heard. I knew it when she made her announcement.
“ So this will be a restorative yoga class. For those of you who wanted a great workout today, well, you’re not going to get it.”
I have to, despite my initial flinching, commiserate with her. When a kid complains loudly about what we’re doing in class today, I don’t have the option of saying, directly
“Don’t be such a turd.”
It would be confrontational. I might be right, but it would single the kid out in front of his peers, and he would take it as a slight, so I’m forced to say, to the entire class
“Even if you don’t like touching snails- and that might be many of you- I would ask that you don’t refer to them as ‘fetid slices of extra-terrestrial labias encased in their own crunchy packaging.’ Please. Humor me.”
So here I was, feeling funny for being abstractly singled out. I had injected a note of negative energy in a discipline where positivity IS THE LAW.
It is something I can’t get over, now living on the west coast. We all know the views are breathtaking, the weather is (mostly) ideal, the food is local and organic, and life is sweet. Still, having grown up in the Midwest, there is a measure of guilt I feel planting carrots in January. It seems an unearned bonus.
Coming so recently from Michigan, talking to my mother who is faced with two months of chemotherapy and sub-zero temperatures- not that she’ll be getting out much- I feel guilty without winter- it sucks, but one feels a certain karmic debt is being paid to the planet. It gave us an excuse to bitch, get grumpy, practice being stoic, and generally be real with each other. Nothing brings out interpersonal issues more than being stuck indoors for 5 months at a time.
Without it- and living in an earthquake prone area- I do feel a Pompeian uneasiness, as if it is an act of hubris to live in such a gorgeous climate on such unstable land. I would feel better if I were older- if I had already had children that could fend for themselves in a disaster, run for the nearest doorway instinctively, know not to light cigarettes around ruptured gas lines. I could believe that I had passed the buck, selflessly contributed to the profligation of the hairless monkey species we so affectionately refer to as ‘people’, ‘God’s chosen ones’ and ‘stewards of the planet’, actual evidence of our success notwithstanding. We’re the only species to have caused a mass extinction through our own greed, an event that has only happened 4 times in 4.5 billion years, and also the only one that was foretold and ignored. Are we so sure that we should trust ourselves?
This tangent- and I do realize that I just went on a long, serious tangent- Is typical of me, and actually relevant to this small Yoga class and my own problems. Should I even trust myself? Should I listen to my own internal soapbox monologues? I digress, sure, but for a reason. Let’s go ahead and bring it back.
So. Class. Begins.
We have been issued 3 yoga blocks 3 blankets, and 3 of those couch-cushion things that have some sort of official sounding name, stabilizers or something. They are shaped like the armrests on a piece of furniture that would most likely be referred to as a davenport. I cannot at all fathom why we will need all this stuff.
She reiterates the fact that class will be more meditative, mostly for my benefit. I’m trying not to look at her, but I distinctly feel her direct gaze.
“You know”, she begins, “Indians consider these meditative mudras the most difficult for Americans to do.”
Immediately problem number #2 surfaces. The Pink Elephant is a dark suspicion that she read this somewhere, and has not, in fact, been to India. It’s cynical. I do not know this woman. I have no reason to believe that she hasn’t been to India. She’s a teacher, and must have some knowledge of whatever yoga teachers are supposed to know, right? I’m pretty sure yoga teachers must really like their discipline, and so must have some knowledge of the philosophical precepts behind it, because without them, it would only be so much repetitive posing. But I can’t help it. I have a third problem, and that is to be contrary just for the sake of being contrary, and a large part of this is to immediately disbelieve everything that shakes my eardrums.
“Let’s concentrate today on quieting our minds, removing all the chatter that goes on in our heads. “
I don’t like the idea. I feel we are getting served a work sheet. Why not think of stuff? I feel as if I am being deliberately placated, that the positivity laws are, if not being enforced, than relying on our collective goodwill to not be critical of the teaching method.
And this goes on. And on. Sometimes I feel like blogging about yoga is proscribing what I’m supposed to get out of it. I often find myself taking mental notes during class, and without out a notebook, I just have to repeat all my thoughts to myself to make sure they stick, and that I’ll remember them when I get home. And by doing this, I am somewhere else entirely- my body might be going through the motions, but my mind is occupying a future cyber-sphere. I am not at all present, I’m just thinking and thinking and talking to myself in my head, responding in kind, turning my cynicism on myself and I realize I CAN’T SHUT UP.
As this all goes through my mind, we are building blanket forts. Well, not really, but it feels like it. The teacher is instructing us to place our blankets and cushions and blocks (oh my!) in a very specific formation. Some cushions are propped on blocks to make a gentle incline, which we will lay our backs on. Blankets serve to pad the floor beneath our legs and booties, other davenport stabilizers serve as ….armrests. Further yoga blocks are positioned to support our heads and necks, and upon completion of this temporary edifice, I realize we just built floor-level La-Z-Boy recliners. We are instructed to relax.
It doesn’t help that I am not the only one smirking at this point. Other yoginis are glancing around the room with that particular Spock-cocked eyebrow, non-verbally sending a social cue around the room that says “ Does anyone else think this is a bit ham-fisted?” It fuels my cynicism, and starts a brand new thread of masturbatory dialogue between me and my inner imaginary me-friend.
The mental chatter is unrelenting- every time I try and empty my mind, attempt to stop the chatter, I open a new discussion thread about whether or not I SHOULD be chattering to myself, if it’s in fact ok. It’s with no small measure of embarrassment that I realize this woman is absolutely right- quieting the mind IS a fucking hard thing to do. WHY CAN’T I SHUT UP? Wait, you just yelled at yourself. Can’t you please shut up? But shouldn’t I be thinking? Isn’t thinking about what’s going on a measure of awareness? I am here, now, thinking about it. And talking to myself about it. Isn’t that a measure of how “Now” I am? Wait, I thought that thought a few seconds ago, and I’m still thinking about it. That’s not ‘Now’ that ‘s elsewhere. I need to have a discussion with myself about that. Wait, I’m NOT SUPPOSED TO BE TALKING to myself. Wait, if I keep saying ‘wait’ to myself, doesn’t that mean I’m waiting for something? Is that ‘Now’-ish?
This paradox, this idea that I need to concentrate on not concentrating, is spinning me in circles.
Still, the La-Z-Boy is soooo comfortable. I DO feel relaxed and- I’m not sure how, exactly- I just surrender to everything. I’m tired of trying to analyze each and every moment, and something just releases. I don’t have to try and shut the voice up anymore, because the voice just got fed up with trying and knocked off for a pint of bitter at the pub. I- and I no longer feel like “I’, anymore, just some physical material that moves molecules around- am…just ……..here. Breathing.
I so forget myself that I don’t even realize that I’m completely out of the thread. Somehow, everyone else took a verbal cue to move on to shivasana, and the mass of creative atoms all lumped together and given the name Shumit has failed to register any sort of social etiquette. The mass shakes itself out of the stupor, and tries to reconnect with a name, but the process is shaky at best. After I rather sheepishly follow the other yoginis, placing my blocks and blankets and mat away in the proper receptacles, I head toward my stuff on the bench. The teacher- the one I offended- thinks I am coming over to talk to her, and her face lights up. It’s awkward- I went to get my stuff together, but in a way, I do want to apologize, and as I fumble with my belongings, I try to address this. I can’t think Shumit enough to discern what order I need to put my street wear back on (pants before shoes), and I tell her as such.
“Ah-ha!” she says, “So you got it!!”
Did I? I’m not sure, but I’m happy that she understands- or recognizes, really- that something happened. Did something happen? I’m not sure of that either, but I know now that it is best not to think about it.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Before we take leave of the Enchanted Mitten and head back to Cali, Let's hear from the Yoga Cop again......
FOLLOW UP REPORT...
Incident Number - 08-38417
Location - 200 S. Main Street
Date & Time - 02/07/2009 1000 hours
Crime - Embarrassment of Law Enforcement Official
Well, the holiday season was busy, and Officer Garbanzo doesn't need much in the way of excuses to be lazy and an overall slug. I made the mistake of stepping on a scale the other day though, and I need to get moving again!
My little sister Chuckette invited me over to watch the Super Bowl with her and her family (I thought the Cards would cover. I didn't place an actual bet so of course they covered). On the way out she mentioned that she was going to Yoga class in the morning, and that the main suspect from the last incident was teaching again. She also informed me that I was a bit off on my age guess, Mimi is apparently 82. Like my ego needed that much more abuse...
So, I bucked up and decided to go. The last time wasn't all that painful to anything other than my pride so I thought I would be safe.
Um, yeah. Not so much.
The class was even more soccer-mom slanted than the first time (sorry Chuckette). No other dudes there at all, not even an old one. I am guaranteed to be the red-headed step child of this class. The good thing though is that you are pretty much always supposed to have your eyes closed and concentrating on your breathing, so nobody will know, right?
So, before we even leave our cross-legged position, Mimi has us doing kegel exercises. Dude, seriously. I just never thought I would voluntarily sit in a room full of soccer moms and do such a thing. I mean, think about it for a second. Try to visualize what the room looked like. I am mortified all over again just thinking about it. I don't know if I am progressive enough for this.
Then Mimi went into a long discourse about our transverse abdominal muscles (or TA's as all the hip yoga instructors like Mimi call them). This is where the pain began. Who knew there were a jillion and a half yoga poses that crush that particular part of your body? Not me, although I sure do now. Compared to the standard military/police academy calisthenics, they were extremely effective even though they used much smaller movements.
Dolphin poses. They sure do sound fun, playful or maybe even cute, no? NO! They aren't. They are hard. They hit pretty much every muscle in your body. So we did a dolphin pose that was like downward dog, which was fun. I couldn't keep up and collapsed to the floor. A couple of times. It wasn't embarrassing or anything though. Shit. Then we did dolphin plane, which is basically a variation on the "front leaning rest". A favorite of mine during boot camp and the police academy. I thought I was past all that stuff, but my old drill sergeants don't have anything on Mimi. As I was sweating, grunting and groaning, doing my level best to not fall out again, there she was, talking through the whole thing. Like she was walking through the park. For some reason, I didn't fall out again. I guess my prior training paid off a little bit.
Before I knew it, the 90 minutes was up. I was pleasantly exhausted. After a quick lunch with Chuckette in yuppie-ville, I went home and promptly slept for two hours. I would highly recommend these sessions to anyone with sleeping issues. It flat knocks me out, but in a good way.
Until I woke up the next day, that is. That's when I felt like I got hit by a car. Every muscle in my core was sore.
I do think that there is something to this though. After practicing yoga (that's what the cool kids say apparently. You don't "do" yoga, you practice it), I feel exhausted, but in a really good way. I have a hard time describing it, but this kind of post-workout exhausted is much more pleasant than anything else I have tried (like running, walking, lifting or swimming).
I plan to take some of my tax refund and buy a package of classes. If I do, I will be sure to keep the Banasana up to date with any further ruminations I might have on the proceedings...
Until then, this is Chuck Garbanzo signing off.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
That said, let's skip ahead, on to YogaMCA, back here in good ole' California, Yes?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Today is Madhavi’s class. Oddly enough, it’s the first Indian teacher I’ve come across, California included. In a little Michigan republican town, this is an oddity. There was a total of 6 Indian kids at my high school, population 1200, and here I am with this woman, the first person who can pronounce all the Sanskrit terms correctly, even better than Subramanya né Larry in California Yoga Central. I, admittedly, am waiting with much anticipation; I want to see how much of the standard spirtual dogma she injects in her class.
The answer? Little or none. She doesn’t bother with Om-ing or centering or anything- she just says
“Let’s start our practice with tadasana, hands on your mat, moving your right leg back into a lunge…”
She doesn’t even use a mat herself, and I am thrilled. It is with just a twinge of guilt and cultural self-rightousness that I want her to kick our asses, to do it in proper desi style, to get into some seriously challenging yoga, because it will validate my notion that all the “Spirit of Birdsong Blessings” yoga CD’s might be circumventing the fact that yoga might include a measure of actual work. She compliments me on my practice after the class, and I’m ashamed to say that I felt pretty proud of myself, out-yoga-ing the septuagenarian grandparents on the other side of the studio. A beat later, I think of my mother, at home, unconsciously holding her breast as she walks around the house, worried that she might never see it again, incapable of even thinking about attending yoga class. All of the sudden, I’m an asshole again, feeling proud for being privileged.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Having both your mother and your counselor in the throes of cancer makes it very easy to ‘set an intention’ – as all yoga teachers are apt to say- at the beginning of class. I don’t need to thank myself for bringing me here. I don’t need to share my practice with anybody. I’m here because I need to take care of myself, if only for the reason that I have done a poor job of this in the past, and if I die before my mom, I will have failed her terribly. Shit, I’m at home again, borrowing her car to come to class, reliant on her careful family planning and my father’s financial savvy, again, after years of being gainfully employed. Maybe nobody sets up their mats by me because I emanate guilt.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Greg Friendlyberry is the teacher today at the yoga studio. His name isn’t Greg Friendlyberry, but it is truly similar. He is heavy on the Namaste, maybe overly-friendly, but I’m finding I no longer mind.
I don’t know if it is a consequence of Paxil® or just a nod to the fact that worse things can happen than slightly ridiculous New-Age Starbucks SUV-piloting suburban soccer moms all chanting ‘OM’ in different keys, but I find I don’t care about it anymore. I still can’t say ‘Namaste’ and bow in a pseudo-spiritual 'the-light-in-me recognizes-and-honorsthe-light-in-you Om-Shanti-Shanti-Om let-me-thank-myself-for-my-practice' sort of way, but if everybody else wants to do it, that’s just fine with me. They can even play that “Sounds of Nirvana” CD, the one with a tinkling faucet, a few carefully placed sitar notes, and a Casio-constructed orchestral background. It’s silly, but soothing in a way. I even like the aromatherapy candles.
All that said, I was still a little shocked- well, mildly surprised might be the more appropriate Paxil grammar- by Mr. Friendlyberry’s shivasana at the end of class. It was just normal at first, falling into that half-conscious state of supreme relaxation, but after a minute or two, I heard a sound I could only describe as exactly like stirring ground beef in a bowl with a wooden spoon. It turns out, this is the exact same sound of someone lathering their hands with goopy lavender hand lotion. I break shivasana etiquette and open my eyes, only to be looking up Greg’s shorts, as he is straddling me in the method of someone spotting a weightlifter in the gym. I really don’t know what to say or do, so I just close my eyes again, hoping he isn’t planning on molesting me in a spiritual way. He smears the lotion on my shoulders, which is just plain weird, but I play along, figuring supple shoulder skin isn’t too bad a consequence for not screaming “WTF are you doing!?!”. I figure it is over after a minute, but no, he then cups his hands over my ears, and the lotion has the effect of hermetically sealing my satellite dishes off from the world, and now I feel terribly odd, cut off from the rest of the world for a moment. He finishes by rubbing a lavender-scented bhindi on my forehead- the religious locale that ash is rubbed on when you enter a Hindu temple- and frankly the Paxil takes over. I figure this is the suburban ceremony, and as long as he removes his crotch from my direct line of sight, I will go along with it.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
I’m sitting with my mother in our normal 11:00 tea session, usually when I roll out of bed. I haven’t shaken California time, not because I haven’t been in the Mitten long enough, but because the medication makes me sleepy. We are just chit-chatting about nothing, dealing with dishes and dinner plans and the locations of food stuff in her kitchen.
“Mom, where’s the milk?” *, I ask.
“In the pitcher on the top shelf of the fridge. There’s Splenda® in the cupboard.”
I should mention that my father is diabetic, and my mother has been on a perpetual diet- one that gets thrown out around noon every day- ever since I reached an age in double-digits. As a result, everything in our house is fat-free, sugar-free, and flavor-free. I’m also 35, getting uglier by the day, worried about my dating prospects, and currently rubbing generic Rogain® ( the Meijer’s Thrifty Acres substitute) on to my growing solar panel. Even the tea we are drinking is a British version of Lipton. I realize, sitting at the counter with my mother, that I’m drinking fake tea with fake milk and fake sugar, watching the fake gas-powered fireplace, growing fake hair, feeling fake happiness with my fake mood, preparing to go to fake yoga, and fretting over the fact that my mother might have to get a fake boob. I tell her as such, and we laugh, the only real moment born of plastic parts.
*Being a family of both Anglo and Indian stock, we take milk in our tea on both sides of the Raj**. We don’t want lemons, and if you are a waitress, please ask before you dump a bunch of coffee on top of it. It’s TEA, damn it, and that’s important to us. Just sayin’.
** “Raj” meaning “king”, it refers to the British occupation of India from the 1800’s until Partition in 1947.
I play with my belly. Often. It is subconscious, and something my ex often chided me for, as I would pull it out in the middle of formal dinner parties.
I only mention this because I was resting my paws on their natural mantle during shivasana (the resting corpse pose) when the teacher suddenly tried to smother me with a yoga blanket. Was I that unwelcome?
I didn’t realize that paws-on-belly is code for ‘cover me with a blanket’ something not done in California. I consulted Em, and she confirmed that this is common practice in colder climates, as it is often difficult to prevent icy gusts slipping in under the door, and consequently chilling the studio. People like blankets after yoga. Still, it was shocking. They seemed like such nice people before they tried to kill me.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The yoga studio is, as the Yoga Cop described so eloquently, a soccer mom yoga deal. I’m no spring chicken, but I am unfailingly the youngest one there, and usually the only guy. The conversation- if you were to transcribe it- seems innocuous enough; what the best high schools are, the advantages of X university over Y college, etc etc, but on paper it lacks the subtle cadence of suburban mothers verbally competing to have the most talented child. I think most of the patrons wonder why I am here, and if I set up my mat on one side of the studio, they unfailingly all set up their mats on the opposite side. This is our routine.
Friday, January 9, 2009
I have been doing yoga with soccer moms, at the very same studio our friend the Yoga Cop visited. Still, before we get to that, I should explain how I got here.
Mom has breast cancer. She, in her own words, “got off easy”- it hasn’t metastasized, and the worst-case scenario is that she will need a mastectomy. That said, it is a scary ordeal, being confronted with mortality, for both me, the son, and mom the….well, mom. On top of this, my high school friend’s mother has a mass in her abdomen, and the prognosis doesn’t look great. His father died of liver cancer only 18 months ago. On top of that the Zeeb- my counselor and friend, and my best friend’s counselor and friend- has undergone, in quick succession, a diagnosis of diabetes and a stroke. He rallied from these with incredible strength- regaining his language skills in less than a month- only to find a blockage in his colon two months later. When they opened him up, they found a mess of cancer all throughout his abdomen, a sticky spider web of malignant slime-mould permeating all of his internal organs. The doctors say he’s got 6-12 months.
I don’t mean to laundry list a sob story- I just need preamble how and why I am now doing yoga with Midwestern suburban wives of auto executives in a haze of anti-depressant medication.
What with residual pains from the shingles-which I mistook for a giant lung tumor- a smoking habit that I am having similar success kicking as our president-elect, and a propensity towards hypochondria when I get stressed out, I convinced myself that I, too, had cancer. I’d call up my high school buddy in the throes of a panic attack, detailing my symptoms, explaining exactly how and why I was going to die, researched thoroughly on the internet. He advised me to take care of it, get a doctors appointment, and, for fuck’s sake, go and see my mother. I was all for guidance at this point, incapable of thinking clearly for myself, so I booked a plane ticket, fully expecting that mom and I could at least occupy the same room in the oncology ward. Who says mothers and sons don’t do things together anymore?
So I came home. To support mom, of course, but also to clear up my issues. ‘Fess up, if you will. I hastily bought health insurance and set off on the plane, shooting pains and swollen lymph nodes all part and parcel.
Mom’s second surgery was still a few weeks away when I arrived, so I scheduled an appointment for myself, figuring that would give us both time to arrange our shared hospital room and perhaps decide on a television viewing schedule, as she favors programs featuring Welsh choirs while I go for crime dramas. I anticipated conflict over the remote.
Suffice to say I was being, if not melodramatic, than at least highly paranoid. I won’t elaborate too much, only say that I got chided by the doctor for poking my lymph nodes with enough fear and force and regularity that they became, duh, swollen. She took blood, poked me in what I assume was a medical way, and decided that I was freaking out. Because I was freaking out, she decided I was depressed and anxious, enough to prescribe Paxil®.
I can’t describe exactly what this drug feels like, although it is eerily similar to taking Threraflu, or any other haze-inducing cold medicine. It is not good, it is not bad, it is just…… zero. It is a curious detachment. Becoming anxious or panicked is simply not an option- whatever brain center was previously responsible for this has been completely deactivated. It can best described by my experience coping with driving in the snow.
I had borrowed dad’s car ( and make no mistake, living at my parents’ house means being 16 again, whether I like it or not) and the roads were terrible, bad enough to start fishtailing on a particularly precarious incline. It was a major road, the closest you can get to a freeway, and a collision would likely mean blood and death and spilled, lacerated organs. You’d figure, being as there were only stalwart aluminum railings that would, should you hit them, only serve to bounce you back into oncoming traffic like a billiard ball, that I would be concerned.
I wasn’t concerned. I wasn’t able. That curious, mandatory calmness didn’t let me.
I have to say it probably helped. I didn’t panic, just adjusted and regained control of the car. Still, I was alarmed at my detachment at the situation. OK, that’s not true. I didn’t feel alarmed at all. I had some sort of abstract perception that I SHOULD be alarmed, but …….nothing. Zero. I just thought
“Well, this sure seems dangerous. I suppose I should do something.”
Although there was no physical or emotional reaction whatsoever, I did recognize the fact that this should be scary, but only in the same way that reading a newspaper article about a homicide in an adjacent neighborhood is scary. I understood that there was danger, and that I could be subject to it, but it was not at all immediate, the type of bowel-twisting fear we are all wired to feel in such situations. Being unable to feel spookiness, it was again academic.
And so here I am. Mom’s surgery is in a few days, and I’m trying to fill time. Being as all my shooting pains disappeared after I stopped repeatedly fingering my lymph nodes, I decided it was time to step up and start being proactive about my health. I’ve signed up for a month at the local Yoga studio, and I’m taking Em’s advice, trying to make it every day, maybe twice a day, although this dependent upon when I can borrow the car. It’s odd, playing the role of a teenager again when I’m in my thirties, but there you go. Hopefully, I can use the time to reconcile all my issues with this little ugly hamlet I grew up in, maybe realize that everything I hated about this town was borne of adolescent angst, within me rather than rooted in some imaginary avarice of the residents. I’m crossing my fingers on this one, but only because read somewhere that this might bring me ‘luck’, something a Paxil patient can only understand on paper.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Proud to be a Yogi from Muskogee
By ChronicallyFabulous (author of the blogs “Chronically Fabulous" and the upcoming "TheYogaExperiment"[link forthcoming])
Confession: I’m an All-American Yogini.
I’ve been practicing and loving yoga since 1994 – before wannabes like Madonna made it trendy. I’ve studied yoga at studios all over the US and Europe, with “famous” instructors. I’ve taught yoga to students who were inspired to begin yoga by my teachings. I know the names and the terms and the videos and the buzzwords enough to establish some old skool “street cred” – or is that “mat cred?”
So here is my confession: I hate sitar music, I’m not learning Sanskrit, I’m converting to any branch of Hinduism, I’ve never been to India…. And what’s more, I’m not interested in any of the preceding things.
I’ve been conflicted about my indifference to India for quite some time. I am of course aware of the ugly history of White Americans appropriating and reselling the cultural riches of other races while leaving those who developed the ideas to languish in poverty and obscurity. And even I have had moments where I have been horribly embarrassed by “American” trends in yoga, such as every yoga teacher brand-naming their yoga teachings, and of course the advertisements for new yoga-themed consumer products (Nike YOGA SHOES …..People who feel that the lower their body fat, the higher their spiritual awareness…Alanis Morrisette shrieking, “thank you India” on Top 40 radio….Russell Simmons headlining yoga events….Excuse me while my spirit barfs)
Plus, there comes a time in the American yoga practitioner’s life when s/he is supposed to make that great spiritual pilgrimage to India. To pursue a deeper, more authentic experience of yoga, and of course, also to be able to show off to the students back home and be accepted into the cool yogi clique (in a deeply spiritual way, of course.) Was I going to stay stuck in a gym-class-yoga mentality unless I booked that (very expensive) airline ticket?
The problem is, the glowing reports of American teachers returning from their passage to India did nothing to increase my desire to visit the subcontinent. A composite report from my former yoga teachers: “I spent a month studying yoga in Goa with Guru X and I got malaria and dysentery and worms, I had explosive diarrhea every night, I was held prisoner by militants, all my luggage was stolen, my Guru sexually molested me….. but it was a deeply spiritual experience that you just can’t understand until you go there, I urge every serious yoga student to experience it for themselves.” Umm……gee, I can’t wait…..
The flip side of White cultural appropriation is White starry-eyed Orientalism. Now that I’ve been in the yoga community long enough, I have discovered that many of the tenets that I believed were part of the ancient Indian wisdom of yoga are actually American ideals. For example, I was taught that yoga is by definition non-competitive, a sign of the Eastern wisdom that was above grasping American competitiveness. Imagine my surprise when I found out that in India, Yoga Competitions are commonplace, where yogis compete publicly for awards for the best physical pose. I was taught that yoga is about “listening to your body” – a phrase you would hear in nearly every class in the US in the past 10 years – about being respectful of your own limitations and never straining or pushing to injury. So imagine my surprise to read the many accounts by Indian yogis of how their beloved gurus would force them into extreme, muscle-ripping poses in order to show off and attract more students.
If we can be embarrassed by American yoga’s cheesiness and excesses, then we can also be proud of the American aspects of yoga that we take for granted: the preponderance of women in a discipline that was until recently men-only; the democratic spread of yoga to all who are interested in a book or a class, without having to make a lifetime commitment to a guru; and the expectation that a teacher/guru will keep his dick in his yoga pants, or face a lawsuit. I think all of these trends are truly spiritual progress. Also, in America we don’t drink our own urine (a trend among certain Indian practitioners, and proof that there IS something out there that tastes worse than wheatgrass.)
So I’ve come to peace with the fact that the yoga I practice and love is a truly American style. Thank you India, and thanks to all my teachers who have braved international travel to study, re-package, and water down this great art for people like me.