My guru isn’t perfect.
He’s the yoga teacher with a split personality disorder. Afraid to show who he really is for fear of being discredited.
She’s the yoga student with a thousand injuries and limitations who spends her hard earned money on yoga classes each week. And humbly attends each and every teacher, taking from them what they have to give.
She’s the mom who is just trying to find some peace in her chaotic world.
He’s the guy who shows up looking for a piece of ass in every class.
He’s the writer who lays it all on the table, just trying to let it all out, to get someone to hear, to listen, to understand.
She’s the superficial yogini who thinks that yoga is equivalent to stardom, starvation and sexiness.
She’s the person who rubs me the wrong way.
He’s the person who hates me.
They’re my children. Who are beautiful. And frustrating. And heartbreaking.
She’s old and saggy and humble.
She’s young and fit and full of ego.
She’s fat, thin, young, old, addict, saint, sadist and masochist.
I don’t want a guru that is perfect. I learn more from the people who have problems, the ones that are fighting for sanity, the ones who can cop to it as much as the ones who deny it. Because you teach me about me. You make me want to be like you, and not like you. You teach me to be better. You teach me to accept who I am.
I am sure that there are enlightened beings out there. I read their writings. I am sure that some of you have known them. Maybe someday I will too. But you? You are my shining divine light of this cosmic dance. You are as much as any golden coin, any perfect life. And I love you for it.
What I love most about you? You.