Maybe it’s the hustle and bustle of the holidays that has gotten my capris in a deep bind, but I had an internal snap the other day in yoga class as I listened to the instructor applaud a student in front of the whole class.
“Well, you’re just so flexible. My gosh you are so flexible. You’ll just have to do the best you can to feel something here,” she gushed. (Insert vomit here.)
I call my breakdown an internal snap because I did what every “yogic” chick does: I processed how I was feeling about it. Was I jealous that I wasn’t so flexible? Did she break my drishti?
Where was the me in this unraveling? I did some deep breathing and gave some time and space to it all, and you know what? I still just want to bitch. And plead. So without further adieu, here is this year’s letter to Santa. (If you’re with me, can I get a “Hell yeah!”)
For Christmas, I’d like to take yoga classes I can zone out into my own blissful peaceful state and not be compared to my fellow students. I want classes I take and teach to be filled with people of all sizes, those new to yoga and those who have practiced for years.
I want those yogis to be flexible and inflexible. I want Joe and Jane Doe to come in off the street because yoga is just as much for them as it is for me and you, fellow elephantjournalers.
I want them to wear clothing from the Dollar Store instead of sporting matching water bottle, mat, hair band, top, and bottom sets from the various “I’m better than you” Lu-Lu-Luxuries out there. I want to feel like yoga is truly for everyone, and not just for model-esque, elitist snobs who fill studios because they don’t have to work and because yoga is the “cool” thing to do.
In short: I want the true heart of yoga to shine so bright it feels like a sun-kissed summer day permanently lodged deep in the soul. Could you do that for me, or us, old guy. Could you? Hit me baby, just one time?
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