Brace yourselves, warriors, I’ve got bad news: I’m beginning to wonder if anyone knows what the hell yoga really is.
The time may have come for the skeptics and the doubters to take to the streets with megaphones and cry out to the masses, “You’re all being brainwashed! Stop spending your time and money on the LSD-inspired, empty promises of a long gone hippie generation!”
They should have stopped at “Make Love, Not War.” That would have been just fine.
In case you can’t tell, I’m right smack in the middle of a pretty serious existential crisis. And I wonder: after 18 years of yoga practice, where did I go wrong? Was my back foot not squared off enough in Warrior 2 that one day? Did I set an inappropriate intention for my practice that time I was thinking about hamburgers instead of keeping my inward gaze on the breath? Maybe a beautiful, red bejeweled chiffon piece of fabric will drape itself over me and whisk me away like a magic carpet ride to a picturesque rocky formation in the desert for some bitchin’ selfies…
What can I say? My major coping mechanisms come from watching Quentin Tarantino movies and listening to Dark Side of the Moon over and over. When I got serious about yoga, I knew I was going to need a bigger boat. But right now it’s 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday, and I’m in bed eating Oreos. I’m not so sure I’m in the mood to explore an imminent psychic shift wrapped in an identity crisis.
Bring on the Pink Floyd.
I’m here to tell you, just wishing for a lightning bolt of enlightenment to crack you open and throw glitter on your wounded heart will get you nowhere, friends.
Lately I’ve found myself imagining a world with no illness, decay or death, all of which I’ve had experience with in the recent past, along with the trappings of overwhelming fear and emotional pain about, well, everything. I’ve wished for health and happiness for all living things on earth, and for peace in my own life which, no matter how many chatarungas I do, is kind of a mess.
C’mon, yoga. It’s a scary world out there. Give me something to believe in, ‘cuz blind faith ain’t my style.
I’ve been gullible in the past. My brother used to tell me Charles Manson had escaped from prison and was coming to get me—and, of course, I believed him. I bit into a raw clove of garlic once on a dare and because I was told it tasted like candy. (It doesn’t.) These days, I’m having a hard time not letting my skeptic side get the better of me.
“Open your heart, and let the Divine sit down.” ~ Anonymous. Is the “All Knowing One” really that lazy?
“Take one step toward the Divine, and the Divine will cross galaxies to reach you.” ~ Hindu saying. Who’s the lazy one now?
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” ~ Rumi. I’m tying my running shoes, and I’m already out the door. You better be there, dude.
I can see the flashing neon billboard. “Spirituality: Just Do It.”
I’m onto you, yoga. You’re trying to deconstruct the ego, so you can build it back up the proper way. Some people call this “enlightenment,” when the seekers and the hunters untangle their restless spirits from the bondage of self-limiting boundaries. Others don’t know what to do in the in-between time, so they end up doing mighty drastic stuff like shaving their head or getting neck tattoos.
I know there’s a place between heaven and earth for real transformation and all, and I’m tired of being on the outside looking in. Hook me up, yoga. I need what you got.
Before there was internet, TV, Pharrell Williams and the “Happy” song—which I love—before flavored vodka, Über (or ümlets) and every other modern amenity, a bunch of dudes got together and created a daily discipline that would take them closer to their maker and improve their chances of coming back to this world in the form of something other than an unevolved, bottom-feeding mini-monster.
They spent their time mulling over stuff and philosophising not about Down Dog variations, but on the meaning of life and the cyclical nature of the law of cause and effect we call karma. And it’s more grave than we once thought; thanks to some dirty deeds done by the sinners and scamps of the world, we’re now walking among former murderers, thieves, con artists, deviants and dancing tricksters.
Is no one afraid of hell anymore?
Screw it. 10 million Hindus and truth seekers can’t be wrong. I’ll be at yoga with the other broken toys, hopefully moving toward something authentic and beyond beautiful together.
Who’s with me?
Author: Anne Clendening
Editor: Emily Bartran