For the past 10 years I’ve been a S.N.A.G.—a Sensitive New-Age Guy.
I’ve “done work” on myself.
I’ve attended all manners of spiritual and self-help workshops, retreats and seminars.
I’ve read the Autobiography of a Yogi. I’ve also read every book by Marianne Williamson, Deepak Chopra and Wayne Dyer—even some Tony Robbins.
I can recite long passages of the Tao Te Ch’ing, Bhagavad Gita and the Upanishads from memory.
I’ve met people in Rumi’s field, I feel no debt to Hafiz’ sun, and I often let the soft animal of my body love what it loves, per Mary Oliver.
I’m so f*cking enlightened, my iPhone recharges when it’s within two feet of my heart chakra.
I still eat pork, steak and chicken.
Many of my friends are vegetarian or even vegan. I’ve tried my share of tofu burgers, kale chips, raw, sprouted, seedy snack bars and chia pomegranate protein smoothies. I was a good sport about it, really.
Now I’d like a rib-eye, medium well, please, a giant loaded baked potato and bacon-sprinkled green beans. And if you could bring out some cheesy garlic bread ahead of time, with extra gluten, that’d be super.
In my office you’ll find both a Mac and a PC.
The beauty and ease of the Mac are perfect for composing and recording meditation music, but I eagerly switch to my PC when I need to get some left-brained work done. Steve Jobs’ constrained nirvana is a terrific place to visit, but I prefer the wild, wild west of Windows, as it lets me shoot myself in the foot if that’s what I ask for.
My hybrid gets 47 mpg.
That’s still awesome actually. (But don’t mistake its baby blue color for meaning I’m “Mr. Nice Guy.”)
Yes, I want to know what you want in bed.
Tell me all of your needs, desires and fantasies. But if you don’t want me taking charge most of the time, we may not be a good fit for each other.
I admire the hell of out your daily hot yoga practice.
And I get benefit from my occasional drop-in to yin yoga.
I’ve been Reikied, healing-touched and energy-worked—to the point of bright, radiant lights streaming from every orifice.
Where will you find me now?
On my new motorcycle, riding in the mountains, without a helmet—indescribably joyous, and in search of a good BBQ joint.
Author: J. Brian Young
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina
Photo: Unsplash/Afonso Coutinho