The worst, greatest yoga class

Have you ever attended a yoga session? Does bikram, ashtanga, up dog, lotus, tree, warrior, namaste, orujjayi mean anything to you? Or do you think yoga is a quack trend for health freaks? Or maybe something else entirely? Well whatever you answered know that this is not a story about the greatness of yoga practice (although I happen to think it is quite beneficial). More importantly, this is a story about how a 90-minute class transformed hate and loathing into gut-punching self realization.

For those not familiar with yoga, it is the practice of controlled breathing while holding and transitioning between poses, and isolating various areas of the body and the corresponding mental processes. All of which is considered physical and mental preparation for the end goal of meditation.

And here's another tidbit: Yoga is not only known throughout the world for its physical and mental benefits but is also a cash cow. In a 2009 Forbes  article the annual reported revenue of yoga in the US was 5.7 billion dollars in 2008. That's billion with a B! That includes studio memberships, teacher trainings, certifications, apparel, accessories, retreats, etc. And that's not even considering the health food tie-ins. There's even an inside joke among yogis--those that practice yoga--about meeting or running into each other at Whole Foods Market after a class. Haven't you seen the Youtube videos?

Now for my story: My latest yoga session came on a beautiful sunny day with 70 degree weather. Not that I was able to enjoy this weather during practice being that it was indoors, but it does fit into my story regarding why the following events took place.  Like every session I attend there is a level of expectation; not in the sense that I want to get something out of it, but more in the sense that like anything one does, elements of one's experience become commonplace, and thus predictable. Think I'm wrong? Ask yourself how much of your day is framed by routine, whether induced by yourself or an external factor such as your job. The way I see it, we begin to need predictability in order to understand our world. We're really all philosophers on some level. So predictably, I considered this session to be what other 90-minutes sessions had taught me: that a hot and sweaty experience would leave me temporarily purged of my most recent conflictions.

Ironically I came unprepared. There's 3 things I always bring to a hot yoga class: mat, "yogi toes" (a frictionless clothe overlay that help absorbs sweat), and water bottle. I forgot to dry my yogi toes the night before. So when getting ready to leave, I went to the laundry room only to find that it was still damp; left in the washer. So I had to make do. Instead I brought a hand towel thinking that I could wipe away the sweat on the mat as I practiced. This was a gross miscalculation.

When I entered the studio it was already quite hot; more than usual. I supposed that this was heat generated from the previous class. However as the session progressed, the instructor made no effort to reduce the temperature. Most classes' temperature sits around 93 degrees, today's was well over that. Thirty-minutes into the class it felt like 100.

Trying to focus on breathing and my poses, I noticed that my mat was quickly accumulating a pool of my own sweat. I began to diligently swab the areas where I placed my hands and feet but this became futile when I realized I was spending more time swabbing and less time yogiing. Distraction is the force that keeps one from the balance we seek on the mat. I was now entering that arena.

As the session continued anger began to build. Why was I so stupid to forget to dry my yogi toes! I thought. As my mat reached its sweat capacity my hands and feet squeaked with every move. How embarrassing. I began to curse the yoga instructor for allowing the temperature to rise to this point of exhaustion.

I looked at my water bottle. It was empty. Shit! I thought. Now I had to leave and get more water. I was ambivalent. To get water would mean I could release myself from this this self-ridicule for a moment but not without acknowledging to myself and everyone else that I giving in. This was ironic since at this point I was already taking child's pose--an inverted resting position--more than actually following along with the group. Pride. Vanity.

Water bottle refilled I made my way back to the studio only to find another student resting outside the door. We exchanged looks and commiserated. Yeah it was damn hot in there we both agreed. Was the instructor a sadist? I decided to man up and re-enter.

Five minutes later and re-synchronized with the class, I had drunk half of my water. The pool on my mat had now moved onto the floor, passed my mat and almost onto the yogi next to me.  Grrr! I thought, this is stupid why subject myself to this! And what the hell is wrong with this instructor!? Did she get joy out of the fact that half of her class was comatose already? I understand the logic of the yoga practice and the instructor to a certain degree--overcome adversity on your mat and you can overcome anything--but this is crazy! And then it hit me. SNAP!

Like a 2x4 to the head I realized (like most periods of self-realization) that I was only doing this to myself. That I was only experiencing this for myself. Not one single other yogi could claim to be experiencing the EXACT same thing I was. Nor could I do the same for them. I was projecting all of my inner destruction outward instead of letting it pass into the ephemeral abyss of relative thinking. Every emotion, every movement, every breath was a simulation of the real world. My mat was a microcosm of my life. Pushed to the limit I was susceptible to anger, loathing, self-ridicule, and isolation. Did my instructor know she was a genius? On some level she knew that we would need to be pushed much harder today.

On a beautiful spring day, when throngs of people escaped their artificial air-circulated cubicles; rubbing and readjusting their eyes from the tungsten-lighted catacombs they emerged onto to the day with hope that the world was inviting them out for a time of frolic. Yet yoga students found their way back inside for a period of self-discipline and evaluation. This act of our fortitude speaks volumes for the ways in which we live our lives. Not to say that those not yogiing are lesser in some way, but as yogis are concerned we need more from life. A sunny day is wonderful and will be appreciated, but our discipline grounds us in yoga practice come rain or shine. Or maybe we're just insane.

Insane or not. Our instructor knew the score: a beautiful day called for a beautiful practice. And a beautiful practice equated to the hottest yoga session in years. Can you push yourself to meet your own expectations? Well until the 2x4 I didn't. So the worst yoga class offered up enough wisdom to put in my back pocket for another day. Of course on the sunny ones I will remember to bring my yogi toes.

J.M.

The Squirrel

Note: I'm working on a few news things but until then here is a re-post of a note I wrote almost a year ago. I've also added a section that I thought was appropriate.


My local Starbucks is only two streets from me so I patron it quite often. With spring burgeoning I have the opportunity to actually enjoy my walks now. Although blustery, today's weather was fairly pleasant, and given my cooped-up weekly cubicle anytime outside has its advantages. Turning the bend I saw a squirrel marooned in the street, an ocean of asphalt between it and the safety of the grass.

At first I thought it already a sacrifice to the road gods; given the time of year this becomes commonplace in the Forest City. Unfortunately no squirrel sits in the middle of traffic unless it has been injured. As are distance decreased I was able to see that one of the squirrel’s hind legs was broken; bent at an awkward angle. Even so, it would scuttle a bit, make an attempt toward the safety of the trees only to be blocked by most recent oncoming death machine (could I even imagine what a car looked like from it’s perspective?). Given the afternoon traffic this was a perilous fete. Luckily each driver was aware of it’s predicament and swerved out the way. But tell this to the squirrel, it doesn't know that each car was making an effort, making its chances of reaching the curb slightly better (given the injuries). So with each oncoming car it froze or retreated it's hard fought advance. 

It hurt me to see it like that so I waited until the cars passed and stepped into the street shielding its way to the curb. Unfortunately it didn't move. I could see its little leg bent and its rapid breathing. I was anthropomorphizing the event: this experience was absolutely terrifying. I wasn't sure if I should touch it so I nudged it with my boot hoping it would scamper away. However, it pretended that it was dead (who knew squirrels played possum). I had no other choice but to pick it up and move it. I had to, I was committed. Psychologists call this the diffusion of responsibility--the number of people available to help someone in distress is inversely correlated with the likelihood of the person receiving some form of assistance. I guess in my mind I have applied this rule to animals as well.

I picked it up. The squirrel was light enough to be picked up with one hand; I could feel its ribs moving (it was much lighter than I always thought a squirrel would be). It gave a short defiant squawk but nothing more. Although the thought had crossed my mind that I could have been bitten I somehow justified my action as being worth it. I mean I couldn't just walk away knowing that I could increase this squirrel’s chance of survival.

I placed the squirrel down on the soft pine-needled covering of the nearest houses lawn, no more than 10 feet from the street. It just stayed there not moving. The rest was up to the squirrel, so I continued my journey to Starbucks...

...After 3 hours of work and 2 tall bolds with skim milk (gotta lay off the fat) I headed home. The sky was a perfect blue and the wind died down to periodic gusts. The sunshine was a remedy to all those days of gray. I love days like this I told myself, it jump starts the soul. The bend was up ahead. I was hoping that the squirrel was not back in the middle of the street. You can never tell what an animal’s intentions are. Maybe I put it on the wrong side of the road. What if it needed to go to the other side of the street and all I did was make it’s chances harder.

Coming up on the yard where we parted ways I saw no sign of the squirrel in the street. There was one happily consuming a nut nearby. It noticed me then scampered away. No broken leg, it wasn't the one. I stopped at the same tree and looked; nothing. I was exhilarated in that moment. Somehow it managed to survive and on 3 legs no less, I thought to myself. However, as my eyes followed the grass toward the house there it was dead. The squirrel was lying on its back, head to the side. It was a male. There was no sign of breathing. I stood there for some time trying to pick out any small movements as the wind would lift its tail to and fro, but nothing happened; no rising of the chest or squirms or sounds. He obviously had more dire injuries than were visible. 

I reflected on the prior moments: me finding him, trying to get him to safety, leaving him to continue on, and even the disconnect of three hours where my world of coffee house music, chatting people, espresso machines, and psychology papers diverged from the simplified survivalist experiences of suburban wildlife. All of this had some meaning to me and if I thought about it long and hard it would make sense (or at least I thought this, which is usually how my mind works things out anyways). Eventually the time to move on felt right so I silently acknowledged the experience and wished the animal off, hoping his life was not entirely in vain.

As I finished my walk home I thought some more about my actions. I wanted to believe he had an easier death on a plush green lawn than in the street. I had to think this or else my actions would have been futile. It occurred to me that at some point in deciding to move him that I was embodying some "savior archetype" that I had inside me; “if I move you, you will live." Retrospectively, I would have done it even if I'd have known his outcome. What this all seemed to point to was simply this: although we all die alone, we shouldn't have to do it in the middle of a road.

J.M.

New post, newer blog

When it comes to writing--that is weaving tales, ideas, and intelligent responses--I have always had a knack. What I haven't had a knack for is the transition from head to paper. Of course there are those that would snicker and say you're not a writer until it's penned but I also know that there are plenty of people on the flip-side nodding in agreement with me. At times ideas flow like water in my mind from some inspiring life event. They can be grandiose like some solution to a social problem or mundane like a smart quip about the interactions of two people in conversation. Whatever the topic though, it's not beneficial to the writer to not pen it. That's why this new post is also an introduction to the new direction of this blog.

Title still uncertain, this blog will encompass whatever I feel like contributing. Why constrict myself to one area of interest when my interests are many: video gaming, psychology, film, people, philosophy, yoga, science fiction, fantasy, classic literature, history, world events, etc. This also helps me have something always to contribute and generate a more steady stream of content. Let's face it, 2 posts in 3 years is 2 posts away from this blog never existing. Be that as it may, I never considered the posts shoddy in any way nor without purpose.

At the time of the blogs construction it was important for me to discuss video games and psychology. I wanted to find a way to speak up the marriage of the two subjects in a readable and welcoming forum.  Unfortunately I found it difficult to write about without gravitating towards scholarly jargon and APA-like formatting (abstract, intro, body, conclusion, and citing sources). Granted I was still in graduate school so maybe it was difficult for me to observe other ways of writing an idea. With that, my third post was too term paperish and papers aren't always interesting.

So I hope expanding my writing venue will propagate a better contribution-rate on my behalf. In the end though, it is always up to the writer (me) to take ideas and vocalize them in some way. Devote yourself fully to your craft and never look back on your achievements as lesser than their intention. Good luck to all writers, bloggers, novelists, satirists, journalists, and contributors in creating masterful works of all shapes and sizes.

J.M.