Trial by Delhi Belly: My Indian Initiation

JH Day 5

Night men photos

KM Mustard fields

There isn't a corner in India that hasn't been pissed in.I thought this as I traipsed worriedly through the Haridwar train station. It was 5am, still dark, and I knew that sooner or later I was going to vomit.I'd woken up before my 4 a.m. alarm with that familiar and sickening feeling: Oh no! It's going to happen to me! Delhi-belly! India's legendary greeting. Now it was my turn.I could expect vomiting, crapping, or both at once. Worse, I wouldn't be able to sleep it off in my hotel room: I had 8 hours of travel ahead of me: 1 hour taxi to Haridwar, 6 hour train to Delhi, 1 hour subway to my friend's apartment in the suburbs.I'd have dubious bathroom options all along the way.I half expected to be let off easy. Maybe I just feel a bit funky this morning. After all, I was eating a lot of strange food these days.So, putting on a false optimism, at 4:15am I dressed and walked down from above Rishikesh's Swargashram area where the budget hotels clustered, past closed shops, my favorite chai-wallah's stand, down between the begging sadhus (saints) now asleep by the side of the uneven pathway, over the Ram Jhula suspension bridge that spanned the left and the right banks of the now-darkened Ganges.I was hopeful that I could overcome that nagging feeling.My taxi driver, Mukesh, arrived on time at 4:45am and drove at breakneck speed through Rishikesh town to Haridwar. We arrived early---plenty of time for me to realize that the growing ache in my belly was not going away.I picked my way through the lobby of the Haridwar station, stepping over people asleep on plastic sacks covered in wool shawls rolled up like big soft cigars.Too poor to get hotels for the night, they stretched out on the marble floor. They were lone men, families or a few women together with their children, misshapen lumps with not a foot, hand, or tuft of hair visible.The bathroom options were not good. I went to explore the “first class” waiting room. The toilets were wet and filthy. The whole place stunk of urine and ammonia. At a sink stood an old man noisily horking up phlegm.I walked back out onto the platform and into the dark, hoping there might be a private place away from the main station building. Near the side of the building, say, or near a field.The first darkened corner I came to a man was taking a piss---as thousands, if not millions, had before him. Men are always pissing by the side of the road, in alleys or darkened corners here. Also in broad daylight. Nix that option.The field next to the Haridwar train terminal reeked of all manner of rotten things, from simple garbage—paper chai cups and foil snack bags—to nastier stuff like kitchen waste, rancid cooking oil, and probably some toxic old paint, construction materials and fetid water. It smelled awful. There was no chance I was getting closer.The degree of filth in India has taken some getting used to. I'm generally not squeamish but the piercing smell of unflushed human excrement affects some primal part of me. I veer away instinctively. If I have to use the toilet, but the only options are filthy, I will somehow lose my need to go.But even the clean public bathrooms have at least a whiff of acrid urine or the putrid stink of sewage. Then there's all that moisture on the floor, usually laced with sandy dirt from the bottom of people's shoes and sandals—footwear that has been out walking the streets littered with centuries of cow-dung, human feces, urine, laundry soap, and many other liquids that have spilled there over time (chai, fruit pulp, samosa crumbs, dog vomit etc).Normally, the surfaces in the bathrooms look dubious too: if there's a flush toilet, uncertain fluids rest on the toilet seat as well as in it. The sinks have a noticeable filigree of black on the porcelain and the taps are usually crusty. I never want to touch anything.In short—-between the smells, the fluids, the dirt, and the obvious presence of others who may or may not wash their hands regularly, public bathrooms in India are generally an unpleasant adventure.I wouldn't even want to throw up in most of them.My belly continued to churn, ache, pinch, and cramp. The situation was well past the stage of mind over cucumber, tomato, olives, and cheese cubes with a honey olive-oil dressing matter. This was a question of when.And about that salad.... Yes, I know, I know: all the guidebooks, and every friend who's ever been to India gives the same warning: avoid all uncooked fruits and vegetables except ones you peel. Especially avoid salad!Contact with contaminated water tends to be the culprit. Bad water leaves many a Westerner, used to impeccable hygiene, vomiting, crapping or both at the same time.Then there's all the roadside dust (tremendous quantities), diesel fumes and—-- importantly--—the cow dung that India's produce is exposed to on its journey from field to table. All potential culprits.But the Health Cafe in Rishikesh washed their produce in fresh water, not tap water (they said), and used the fresh, organic ingredients. I'd eaten a few salads there already no ill effect. It was such a relief to eat fresh food!But I'd taken things a bit too far. This one was not going to stay down.Maybe because the three skinny and serious guys running the cafe had been distracted while cooking that particular night. There had been some Borat-style sketch comedy clips on the Internet; the men had gathered around to watch and laugh. Maybe they hadn't paid attention to how those veggies got washed that night.Back in the Haridwar train station, I ran out of ideas for where to do my business. Then, I saw someone I recognized from Rishikesh and realized that I had forgotten to find out what platform my train was leaving from. So I waved down the tall guy with clear Dennis Hopper-style glasses and a wildly scraggly beard.“Platform 4,” he said, looking surprised to be recognized. In spite of the fashionable stuff going on with his face, I knew him as a friendly person. At the Health Cafe, we'd talked briefly about yoga teachers in Rishikesh.“Where do you go?” I'd inquired.“Well, Surinder at the Raj Palace Hotel has been sick lately. But for me he's the best. There's Usha across the river at Omkarananda but it's 500 rupees ($10). Otherwise Kamal the Astanga guy is pretty famous.”“I'm done with Astanga,” I said. “I leave it to other people now.”He laughed, “Yeah, too hard on the joints!”We were on the same page.At the railway station, we found the pedestrian overpass to Platform 4 and climbed the stairs together. I wondered whether to tell him that I was on the verge of upchucking. It was all I could think about. On Platform 4, we sat ourselves and our packs down on a metal bench and I noticed there were no places to get sick here. Except onto the tracks themselves. In front of everyone.I hate making a demonstration of myself in public. It is one of my worst nightmares. It looked like I was going to have to either be very brave, or very creative, in how I managed this situation It had all the signs of being painfully embarrassing.But for now, here was Jaime, 24, tall and lanky and Italian-looking. He spoke with the carefree, go-with-the-flow Italian poise; I'd seen him around town with several different people. I could imagine him on a scooter, drinking coffee at an outside trattoria, waving “ciao!” to his friends.So I was surprised to learn not only that he was Mexican but that he suffered the same curse I do: worrying. In fact I was worrying right now, and had been since I'd woken up.But it was hard to imagine him worrying. He looked so chill. But like me, he was an over-planner, thinking that if all the details were in place ahead of time, everything would go well.I had new respect for him.“Do you remember what Mooji said?” I asked him. The charismatic Jamaican-English teacher had been in Rishikesh giving satsangs (question and answer periods) and I'd seen Jaime get up and ask a question.“No, what?”“He said, 'You can't breathe tomorrow's air.' ”“Wow, I don't remember that, it's a good one. Really great,” said Jaime, nodding. “I also like to plan, but actually,” he raised a long, thin finger, “it doesn't make things better.”“I know, right? Because you get so frustrated and disappointed when things don't go the way you want them to.” This seemed to apply well right at this moment. “And you can't stop them.”“In fact, I think it makes things worse,” said Jaime. “India really forces you to deal with this...it's simply impossible to maintain your plans here. Too chaotic. Everything changes. Nothing goes the way you think it will. ”“Totally."As Jaime and I bonded over our own poor attempts to control our reality, I realized I was not thinking about my stomach ache. Maybe if I kept talking to Jaime, I would actually be fine.Or maybe if Jaime and I kept talking about Mooji and the overwhelming feeling of peace and love that the accomplished Vendanta teacher brought into the room, I could overcome my food poisoning altogether. Maybe I could use mind over matter. And somehow just the memory of Mooji would guide me.Dawn was beginning to light the railway tracks. Many more people had gathered on the platform. A woman asked Jaime to move his pack so that she could sit down on our metal bench. A poor man wrapped in a dirty white cloth and a dirty brown cloth, carrying a gnarled walking stick, came to beg for money. He touched me on the head several times and pointed to his cloudy eyes. A woman stuck a portable Durga shrine lit with sticks of incense under my nose and insisted on coin donations.But then, suddenly, quickly the train arrived, a few minutes late, and the growing crowd on the platform surged towards the train with their packages, scarves, slippers, small children, tiffin pots full of portable lunches. As we got up and shrugged into our packs, a surge of nausea hit me. I wasn't going to escape so easily.Jaime and I said goodbye: he was in a car at the opposite end of the train from me. All our seats were pre-assigned so I knew I wouldn't see him again. He would transfer in Delhi for a 31-hour train to Goa on the coast.As I slipped into my window seat next to a devout Muslim man who later gave a copy of his Qur'an, I prayed that, if throwing up was truly inescapable, please let me have the safest, cleanest, most peaceful experience of being sick possible, one that was not humiliating.And when the time came, I found a passable porcelain sink in a reasonably un-smelly bathroom. The door locked. I managed to keep my balance on the wildly swaying train. Given the options, this little set-up was a bit of a miracle. I managed. I figured it out. It was kind of okay.This was definitely one of those things I couldn't plan for and couldn't know how to manage ahead of time. It wasn't great—because throwing up is by definition awful—but of all the options I had been given, it was okay.And that was a decent compromise for me.

...and this just in: One More Book!

Jaimal Yogis Fear

This just in! Got a note this morning from surfer yogi dude, Jaimal Yogis, that his new book will be out January 8th.Yogis's 2009 book Saltwater Buddha: A Surfer's Quest to Find Zen on the Seatook a koan-ic approach to the chillest sport ever, as he searched for enlightenment on the waves.In his new book, The Fear Project, Yogis hopes to answer this question (click to watch):Since I don't have the book in my hands---but I can vouch for Yogis as a writer---I'm giving you the marketing copy below (you know, the stuff you'd read on Amazon or Library Journal).Great gift for your the surfer yogi in your family?

This provocative, entertaining story follows Yogis as he navigated his own fears, from the monsters under his childhood bed to his personal quest to surf bigger and more difficult waves, culminating in northern California Mavericks—huge, crushing (and sometimes deadly) waves in the dead of winter. The Fear Project explores the complicated spectrum of why we feel afraid: fear of loss, fear of not being good enough, fear of being alone, fear of being trapped in the wrong job, fear of not being able to realize our dreams, fear of pain, and ultimately, fear of our own mortality.Yogis embarks on a memorable journey as he seeks answers from neuroscientists, meditation teachers, psychologists, and elite athletes. As he learns how to identify and overcome his own fears, he shares the secret to unlocking a sense of renewed possibility and a more rewarding life.The Fear Project is a captivating look at the age-old lesson that by recognizing our fears and embracing them—instead of running away—we can harness fear's powerful energy to find true happiness and fulfillment.

Get Real: Controversial Writer talks about "The Science of Yoga"

Science of Yoga

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New York Times senior science writer, William J. Broad came under fire in early January for his article “How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body". In it, he recounted shocking stories and studies of yoga-related injuries. The article enraged parts of the yoga community who felt it scared newcomers and discredited yoga.As provocative as the article was, Broad's book, The Science of Yoga, is solidly researched---and fascinating. He reviews 150 years of studies, giving readers a very good idea of the scientifically measured benefits (healing, inspiration, sexual power) and the dangers (physical injury, group thinking) of yoga asana practice. I had the chance to interview WJB about the whole experience.

YN: Were you surprised by the response to the NYTimes article?

WJB: I was surprised by lots of things. On the one hand there was lots of email about, “if you think that’s bad, let me tell you my horror story.” Spinal infarcts, vertigo, that kind of thing. But I also got extremely un-yogic responses like the bitter invective from a 30-year veteran yoga teacher who said, “Go fuck yourself,” and a yogini in L.A. who said, “You are a jerk, you don’t know anything about yoga.”

YN:Do you attribute this to the growing pains of what you call Yoga 2.0, “the modern variety” of yoga, especially in the West?

WJB: I hope that’s what it is! That’s part of my naive optimism. Science demonstrates lots of benefits of yoga---neuro-transmitters that help your mood, help your sex life and so on. The science also clearly demonstrates that yoga as we know it contains alluring myths such as, that yoga helps you lose weight, or it’s the only exercise you need, etc. This just isn’t true.I hope the outcry is part of the process of starting a conversation. And I’m hopeful that there’s a growing realization that yoga can be better. Which for some people is a contradiction. They think, yoga is ancient and what can be better than that? But the science says that there are issues and it can be better.Another surprising aspect of the feedback has been the depth of the reform movement. I had no idea. People using props, Iyengar teachers tailoring poses to people rather than the other way around. There are dozens of groups, schools, and styles that are working hard to provide this evolutionary agenda. That delighted me.

YN:So the reform movement would be more in the direction of Yoga 3.0 or 4.0.

WJB: Of course, those are arbitrary numbers. Yoga is this thing that’s being born all around us.

YN:What were some of your favorite “me too” stories from the letters you received?

WJB: Some of them moved me almost to tears. Two people who stand out are former studio owners, who say, ”Woah, you ain’t kidding. Do we have things to tell you,” such as a lifetime of surgery and therapy on their own spines. In one case, one of them had been working with celebrity yogis, creating curriculums. She was forming very visible programs and was very much in the mainstream.

YN:Speaking of reform, have you heard of International Association of Yoga Therapists (IAYT)?

WJB: I talk about IAYT in the chapter on healing. For 3 years I was a member. I’d send them my membership fee and they’d send me a credential with gold fancy lettering. I’ve seen them hanging in yoga studios—I hope they stop that practice because it’s just about the $75, not about having an actual diploma.To their credit—because what I want is for yoga to become more professional—they are trying to create standards and schools with standardized curriculum. That’s great! I’m hoping for yoga doctors, myself. I think it’s an outrage that we spend 10s of billion dollars on fix-this, fix-that pills when anyone who does yoga seriously knows it’s a better way. Yoga done right is grown up. It says, “I take responsibility for myself and I have control over what I do” in a way that popping pills doesn’t.So, I applaud them but on the other hand they did send me three fake diplomas.

YN: So you think they don’t go far enough.

WJB: There’s a lot of guru worship out there and cultish schools finely dividing themselves into factions and sticking to what they think is the truth. That’s why science is so powerful because it looks at what is real and what is not real. It can be more objective.The Science of Yoga is the first book to look at the century and a half of science on yoga. The science can illuminate a lot of what are bogus claims and what are understated truths.

YN: It seems like you’re saying that yoga is both much better and also worse than we thought. It’s much more extreme—handle with care!

WJB: Exactly. In my own practice, I did it for stress management. But fundamentally, yoga is much more extreme than a stress management system. As a science journalist I was blown away by the mysteries of the practice.

YN: Can you give an example?

WJB: How low can the human metabolism go while maintaining a level of consciousness? Is suspended animation possible? We can actually go into a deeper hibernation that a turtle or a bear—that’s quite amazing.How possible is continuous bliss—sexual, or whatever you want? Some people can so stir their inner fire that they enter these states of continuous ecstasy that is allied with sexual ecstasy. Possibly these are states of enlightenment.

YN: You say that you started to research in 2006—did the subject matter require more research than you expected?

WJB: I thought I was going to do it in 9 months but it took 5 years. In many cases, the science was more difficult than I thought.The sexual chapter alone took 3 years. There was some evidence to wrestle with. Some research said that yoga makes sex hormones decline. That wasn’t intuitively right to me and had not been my experience. I put that away for a while. When I’d go back to it, I’d still think that it didn’t add up. Then some advanced yogis talked to me about continuous bliss and all kinds of stuff, and then things started falling into place. But it took time.

YN:Speaking of sexual bliss, I noticed that you refer to Tantra only as a sex cult. The Himalayan Institute, where I’ve been studying, takes pains to separate left and right-handed Tantra. You don’t do that. Was this a conscious choice?

WJB: It’s very much in their interest to separate left and right handed, isn’t it? Tantra is a muddy subject. There’s layer after layer of symbolic misrepresentation. It’s gets so convoluted and strange—it’s a deep well.

YN: It strays into the magical, for sure.

WJB: Tantra gets into magic and trickery, frauds and pretexts for having fun. And they call it spirituality. Then there are serial philanderers such as Muktananda and Swami Rama, their 60-yr old bodies humming with vitality and they’re going down on any woman who’s willing—it’s bizarre.How can they rationalize that appalling behavior? There’s lots of literature about the hard effects of betraying that doctor-patient relationship. There are women traumatized by these swamis: he was their God and their God kept going down on them and doing these weird things!

YN: It’s hard to understand—puzzling and disappointing.

WJB: And yet it’s worth meditating on in the sense that it’s real so we don’t want to hide from it.

YN: Your parameters for “yoga” didn’t include much meditation and pranayama. I’m sure you know of the research studies done by Jon Kabat-Zinn (on mindfulness meditation) and Richard Miller (on yoga nidra/iRest). What was your thinking there?

WJB: Initially, I wanted to have the research to be physically-based, but then my research went over into neurological areas such as in the muse and sex chapter. There’s a hugely overlooked area in what yoga does as a powerful stimulus to creativity, for example. It’s also because it’s the way the industry goes right now—so much of the yoga we do is physical and doesn’t tolerate any meditation or pranayama. This is not Patanjali’s 8-fold path. It may be a misrepresentative slice of what got shipped out from India.

A Letter from Brazil

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handwritten

translation of Ana's letter

Last month I talked about my very personal reasons to sponsor a needy child---in Brazil. About two weeks ago I received my first letter from Ana Vitoria, who lives in the northeast of South America's largest country. Cool!I've always loved getting letters in the mail. In high school, I wrote to my friends regularly---and they wrote back. I even wrote to strangers I met while traveling--and they wrote back. I remember very clearly how great it was to catalog my thoughts and the events in my life. Even more thrilling to receive a response.So, I was smiling from ear to ear as I opened the white World Vision envelope postmarked "Recife, BR."  Ana's funny, 7-year old thoughts were penciled in crooked letters on the organization's stationary: she has a cat named Shena. Her favorite color is pink. She likes rice pudding.I made my way through the Portuguese first (hard to read in crooked pencil marks) and then read the translation. Fun! I imagined her sitting down with her project worker, maybe on some porch or outdoor bench near her school, maybe the fields are green around her, or maybe they are brown and parched. I see her answering his questions about what she might want to say to me, this stranger so many thousands of miles away in this famous city of this famous country. I imagined how my life that must seem, in her imagination, to be overflowing with luxuries. As we head into December---a time of unrelenting indulgences with presents to buy, trips to take, parties to go to, New Year's hopes and dreams on the horizon---I'm gearing up to write Ana a letter of my own. I'll be thinking about how to put my life into simple words. I'll be thinking about all the many, many blessings that I have, all the advantages I overlook everyday. I'll look for the words that a 7-year-old would understand, one who struggles to have enough to eat. It makes me wonder if I couldn't do more for Ana than just send her a Christmas card.(In some countries that World Vision sponsors, you can buy a child's family a goat!) And in the meantime, I'm feeling pretty grateful to be sending her a little money every month. It's a great feeling to contribute to her well-being. Maybe you'll contribute at the office this year, or volunteer at a local food bank, or even sponsor a child of your own?Happy holiday month and Hari Om!

RIP Jack the Cat

Maybe it's pre-11.11.11 vibes---you know, on Friday we shift into the long-awaited Acquarian age, according to Yogi Bhajan. Oct 28 marked the long-awaited end of one big cycle of the Mayan calendar.Or maybe it's just me---I've  spontaneously stopped eating much meat or drinking much alcohol lately, and it's making me sensitive to, you know, broccoli, kale, and stories about animals. This story about Jack the Cat really got to me today.Jack the Cat escaped his carrying case before being loaded onto and American Airlines flight bound for California on August 25, where his owner, Karen, was moving.Lost in the airport for 61 days, he fell through the ceiling at JFK customs on October 25 and was rushed to pet hospital in Manhattan.American Airlines flew Karen back to New York to attend to her cat. But he was too weak from malnutrition and dehydration to continue on. On Sunday, after Karen had flown back home, Jack was put to sleep, surrounded by Karen's friends and supporters.

Despite measures like a feeding tube, intravenous fluids, antibiotics and one operation, veterinarians finally recommended euthanasia.“Forty to 60 percent of his body area was affected by devitalized tissue, tissue without blood flow,” Dr. Daly said.A Facebook page devoted to Jack, Jack the Cat Is Lost in AA Baggage at J.F.K., had more than 24,400 “likes” as of Monday morning. On Sunday, a post entitled “RIP Jack — Full Info” reported that Jack had “gone over the rainbow bridge.”

Rest in peace, furry friend. Sniff.

3 Reasons Why I'm Sponsoring a Child in Brazil

Flying back from my brother's home in September was emotional. He was 4 weeks (out of 6) into intensive chemo and radiation, confused, weak, and scared about the future. His wife and I were working around the clock to care for him--and his two kids who were just starting kindergarten and pre-school.It was hard to leave at that moment, especially to return to my rather foreign life in New York. I was a part of his family more than ever now, and they needed all the help they could get. (Two 1/2 months earlier, Bill had been diagnosed with a stage 4 brain cancer, just a few weeks after his 36th birthday.) On that September trip, I had gotten close to my 5-yr old nephew, Alex, and my 3-yr old niece, Sammie. I had gotten to know my sister-in-law in a way that only people thrown together into crisis can. I had one of the most intense---and in an odd way, satisfying---experiences of family I'd ever had.I worried about leaving them at this moment, yet I needed to get back home to keep my own life going.  If my life fell apart---emotionally, financially, or otherwise---I wouldn't be much good to anyone. On my poignant plane ride back, thinking so much about family, I also felt lucky to be in a position to help. My brother's airline (he's a pilot) was flying me out to the west coast of Canada and back. My job as an editor was giving me the time off. I was able-bodied and I had a enough savings to afford miss a paycheck. Still, I also felt the temptation to retreat into worry, sadness, and self-pity. Nothing compared to my younger---and only---brother getting stage 4 cancer. Yet instead of descending into self-indulgence, something else, completely surprising, happened. On the plane's head-set TV,  an advertisement came on for an organization that sponsors children and their communities in impoverished parts of the world. Usually I leave that kind of work to other humanitarians. But that morning I felt an instant connection to those children. I deeply understood what it would mean for them to have some extra help. In fact, for the price of a sandwich every week I could get a child a visit to a doctor, help her (or him) grow a garden, or even buy her textbooks or help her go to school for the first time. Thinking about it made me cry all over again. I thought about it back at home and I investigated the organization. I waffled and I wavered. But the feeling that I needed to do this persisted. So here are the three reasons why I decided to sponsor Ana Souza Silva, age 7, of northeastern Brazil.

1. There is almost no price on giving ($10 a week? nothing), but there is a huge price to not receiving. To give to someone who needs help is an honor and a privilege.

2. I am Ana; Ana is me. We are connected. The act of giving is the understanding that our lives are, ultimately, bound together. It's the, "there but for the grace of God go I" idea.

3. I've felt a special connection with Brazil for several years, and it's a country I will most likely visit again. The fact that I might meet Ana one day makes giving her money all the more real, and all the more meaningful. (I've already started the paperwork!)

4. (I know I said three, but there are more!) It's really, really easy. It's the easiest way I know to give thanks for the privilege of my own life. It *is* the embodiment of "thanksgiving." Why wait for the date in November before I embrace this commitment to living?

5. It's almost hard to describe how exciting and moving it is to give a little money to Ana each week. It chokes me up every time.Maybe this holiday season you might also give to a needy child or a needy family. It really feels amazing. I chose to work through World Vision. They are a Christian organization, but they get great reports.

Happy November!

Adding "Namaste" to Bachelorette Parties

As reported in theNew York Times today, more young brides are adding fitness to their bachelorette parties. And that includes yoga.Are you surprised?What surprises me (constantly, sigh) is the endless creative ways that entrepreneurs organize yoga for busy brides-to-be. Writes the Times:

It’s not just New Yorkers: The Los Angeles-based company Yoga for Weddings (slogan: “Bringing the Deep Breath to the Big Day”) offers private 90-minute classes, with a focus on “heart-opening poses” like the Cobra, for brides-to-be and their pals in nine United States cities (cost: $500). Innerlight Center for Yoga and Meditation in Middletown, R.I., started offering $200-an-hour bachelorette parties last year; already demand this year has tripled, said Kim Chandler, the center’s director.

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That's a lot of cash for a little namaste with your girlfriends.... but it's about priorities.I'm guessing smart companies know that a few sweaty down dogs with your closest lady friends might work out better in the long run than a big drunken glitter-covered mess that you don't remember well even the next morning.

Protest or Party? Yoga as Political Theater or Giant Concert, your choice

According to the New York Times today, agitators in India are using hunger strikes---and yoga---to protest corruption in their government. While some people, such as Mr Anna Hazare, of the DMK political party are fasting to affect change, others such as  yoga guru Swami Ramdev, are planning mass yoga sessions.

... Swami Ramdev, a yoga guru with political aspirations and hundreds of thousands of followers, has created another front of protest. Tents have been prepared at a campsite in New Delhi for a mass yoga session on Saturday followed by a hunger strike. Mr. Sibal and other top ministers met Swami Ramdev at New Delhi’s airport on Wednesday and spent nearly two hours trying in vain to persuade him not to protest. --NYTimes

Wanderlust standard

Meanwhile, in Manhattan, where we have not a thing to protest, and only joy in our hearts, yogis and music lovers are preparing for the second attempt at a ginormous public yoga class in the city. As you might remember---maybe you were there---last year's Flavorpill event was rained out. This year, the Wanderlust team has taken over, and will be offering instruction by Anusara's golden child, Elena Brower, Breakti's creator Anya Porter, and Kula Yoga/Wanderlust director, Schuyler Grant at Pier 63 near 24th Street and the Westside Highway on June 7th. Music will be provided by New York's favorite in-class musician, Garth Stevenson, and Earthrise Soundsystem.From political theater to giant concert, appropriate use of yoga has once again proven to be hard to establish. But a lot of people do seem to think it's more fun when attached to another agenda, and when practiced with a lot of other people. Maybe.

The Blue Tape

2011 Yoga Journal Conference, NYC Part DeuxOne of my favorite passages from Neal Pollack's hilarious book Stretch: The Unlikely Making of a Yoga Dude involves him going to a Yoga Journal conference in San Francisco. He describes it thus:

Lurching through the doors of the Hyatt, I entered a sea of crazy old ladies seeking their next kundalini high, as well as a decent number of smokin' hot babes in tight lululemon pants. A few men floated about carefully, like Triassic-era furry mammals looking for eggs to gnaw not wanting to disturb the dominant species. Everyone seemed excited and awake. I was a midnight guy in the Valley of the Morning People."Pretty accurate.

Blue tape

More blue tape

He goes on to describe the sub-basement room his workshop takes place in, and the blue masking tape that marked "even rectangular spaces each large enough for a yoga mat and some miscellaneous props."I was in the middle of a mind-boggling lecture on Tantra when I remembered Pollack's line about the tape. And as I looked around me, I realized---I was surrounded. The blue tape was everywhere, in every lecture room and practice space. Fronts of rooms were taped, backs of rooms, even spaces that it was unlikely anyone would ever practice, such as beside the stage or right near the door. The only places that weren't taped were the marketplace and the lecture hall (which did, however, look like a powder-blue tea cup). Clearly, the blue tape is a pragmatic solution to human tendency towards chaos. And I admit it made me feel somehow safer from the throngs of people: I had space to put my shoes, my bag, my notebook, and pen. It gave me some private property, and acted as a psychological barrier in a radically impersonal space full of strangers. Still, it did have an elementary school feel to it, like it was meant to help us to color more neatly between the lines. And it could not protect us from our thoughts, like, "that's an unfortunate hair style" or "wish I had started yoga in the womb so I wouldn't feel so behind now." Nor could the ubiquitous blue tape protect us from weird vibes or aromas, like my neighbor's unbrushed-teeth smell that he blew on me as we did an excruciating IT band release in Bo Forbes's "Mind-Body Flow: Crafting a Therapeutic Practice." Since Pollack had pointed out the tape---and it had lodged in my memory---it did add some levity to my endeavors at the conference. There I was, one of a thousand women and a hundred men flip-flopping around the Hilton Hotel, loaded with yoga mats, blankets, bags, water bottles and swag, like perky Spandex-clad pack-horses. We were searching for yoga knowledge---or just yoga fun---to be delivered in neat packages that appealed to our upper-middle class sensibilities (with a dash of the hippie dippie). Who were we kidding? Were we for real? Most of us were earnestly excited, but our questing also seemed a bit silly. So maybe we do need help coloring between the lines, playing nice, and staying on point. "Hi, that's MY Prana mat bag, don't touch it," or "Keep your eco-friendly, hand-dyed shoes on YOUR side of the blue tape, please." Now, now, kiddies.

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

2011 Yoga Journal Conference, NYC Part UneThis weekend in is the second Yoga Journal conference in New York (the first was in 2009), and through a stroke of good fortune I was able to attend. Not wanting to waste a single drop of my precious pass, I chose to do the Friday all-day intensive with Rod Stryker, creator of Para Yoga. In other words, I would spend the entire day with a Tantric teacher instead of at my day job. You can imagine that my choice was not difficult: reviewing manuscript for a remedial English textbook, or learning about how to overcome my limitations by becoming a living embodiment of the divine. Hmm. I put in for a personal day, rolled up my blue piling yoga mat, and packed off to the Hilton Hotel in mid-town.

I had another agenda, too. Stryker is a long-time student of Panditji Rajmani Tigunait, the spiritual head of the Himalayan Institute where I've been doing the Living Tantra series since July 2010. I wanted to see how Stryker interpreted the teachings of Panditji---and Panditji's teacher, Swami Rama---for American yoga people. Truth be told, I was having some trouble with the mysterious and magical stories of Tantra's history and practices. How exactly was I supposed to conduct a fire ceremony, or the secret rituals? How did my urban Brooklyn life fit in with Tantra's esoteric take on reality?

So here they all were again, Tantra's basic ideas, but presented in the low-lit conference room of a corporate hotel, rather than in a vegetarian ashram in northeastern Pennsylvania. In Tantra, Styrker reminded us, we don't make the self go away in order to have a spiritual practice. Rather, we alchemize ourselves so that the divine works through us. How do we attract divinity? Not by giving up worldly things, but by becoming more like the divine in our daily lives. Tantric asana practice is a discipline to refine your energy so that the alchemy can happen.What about sex and death, you ask? Well, in the left-handed path, which is all about enjoyment, no desire is denied because all desires are expressions of the divine. In the left-handed path, you can have all the sex you want, but you might also meditate in a cremation ground by sitting on a corpse. Ewww.

Since many people are not always comfortable with corpses---and truthfully probably not so much with hedonistic sex either---they have to practice asana, pranayama, mantra and ritual to clear out their misconceptions of the Source and limitated conceptions of the Self. In other words, on the right-handed path, which emphasizes liberation, people have to work to align their desires with the divine, to know that there IS a source behind everything. And this source is beyond what we can conceive of with the rational mind. In the right-handed path, no ecstatic copulation---and no visits to graveyards---is required.

Stryker talked for most of the morning session, introducing the subject of "god" and all its forms at about the half an hour mark. "We have all these choices but they are not related, not integrated. It's like going to several specialists and getting several opinions--it almost paralyzes you. In Tantra we integrate them. Then we practiced. Gentle asana---that reminded me very much of ViniYoga asana practices---with the emphasis on the breathing pattern. On the inhale bring the breath down the spine and relax the bandhas, on the exhale bring the breath up the spine and contract the lower two locks. We were trying to build fire in the belly, the fire of manipura chakra, where our issues get burned up and purified, and where our sense of agency originates.

We did this in standing poses, back bends, and forward extensions, even adding in the mantra, Om Agni Namaha---the mantra to stimulate and propitiate the fire at our navel center. Then we sat for meditation. By the time we broke for lunch---and again after the afternoon session---I was high as a kite, floating on a pulsing current that eliminated every thought and even the need to breathe. When I asked Stryker a question in person afterward, my eyes felt dilated like I'd become a wide-eyed alien who had just visited the optometrist. It seemed like light and energy were pouring through them, but Rod answered my question without seeming to notice. No matter, I will bathe everyone I meet with my Tantric-generated fire, I thought, walking unsteadily out into the glaring hallway of the enormous hotel. Clearly that wasn't going to last long.

In the evening I was signed up for David Romanelli's "Yoga & Chocolate" class. While "yoga & chocolate" might seem to qualify for the left-handed path, it wasn't hedonistic at all. In fact, going from Stryker to Romanelli was like falling from the breathless heights of Kilimanjaro and landing with a thump in a Starbucks.Not that the chocolates weren't good---the Vosges chocolates were complex and intriguing, especially the vegan one with Oaxaca chilis. It was the yoga that was prosaic. Your basic sun salutation, your basic back bend, your basic forward fold. And the sprinkling of interesting factoids throughout the class felt calculated to deliver a message to a demographic to which Romanelli, a self-proclaimed "major Gemini," assumed we belonged---the too busy, too distracted crowd who was out of touch with our emotions and our five senses.Romanelli was a clever marketer, but his delivery was flat---and in fact, he read from his factoids from a script. He seemed happiest when he was embracing beautiful women---of whom he seemed to know a great many (I saw him embracing them all over the Hilton).Still, the 100 or so women---and 8 or so men---in attendance thought that "Yoga & Chocolate" was the way to go, and who am I to question how people approach meaning in their lives? I'd just dropped in from Mars, after all.

Anti-Gravity Yoga

On a hot July day last summer, my adventurous friend Michele, who normally cooks at a research station in Antarctica, took me to Om Factory's Anti-Gravity Yoga class.I thought, no problem, I've done a lot of yoga, and even a lot of weird yoga. In fact, it would be a good addition to my repertoire, since I've never done yoga suspended in a large swath of orange silk.Watch a video of it here: Anti Gravity Yoga at Om FactoryIt was a lot of fun tumbling around in the hammock of fabric, twirling upside down, and swinging my body back and forth in some very creative interpretation of yoga poses (could you really call "that" triangle?).It also stimulated a lot of abdominal and leg muscles I never knew I had since I was sore the next day. And sometimes it was scary. Falling backwards into the silk required a huge amount of trust---like standing on the high diving board as a little kid and praying that the water really would be there after I jumped.In April, the NYTimes launched "Gym Class" as part of their Well column and video series, and Anti-Gravity Yoga was the first subject in their "interesting class that you were too intimidated to try" roster. According to the article,

AntiGravity Yoga was developed by Christopher Harrison, a former aerial acrobat and gymnast who found traditional yoga too hard on his injured wrists. The weightless poses can be used to strengthen the core as well as relieve aching joints and stretch tight muscles.

Or, as one commentator on the Gym Class blog said, "Wow! So this is what life is like when one has excessive disposable income...."

Yoga + Infertility = Baby?

Women battling infertility is a familiar (though harrowing) story these days. Women using yoga to reduce stress and love themselves better is another familiar story. So it comes as no surprise that yoga is helping women to cope with the physical and emotional stress of infertility and its treatments...It's also not a new idea. My ob/gyn, Dr. Eden Fromberg, opened Lila Wellness Center in New York several years ago to meet women's pre-and post- (and pre- pre-) natal needs. And there have been programs such as Receptive Nest, and studios such as Brooklyn's Bend & Bloom, helping women to reach full "bloom" in their childbearing years. Other renegade yoga specialists have been helping women for years to make the all-important mind-body connection necessary. But the NYTime's article this weekend, "Yoga as Stress Relief: An Aid for Infertility?" raises this issue with a new twist: once-skeptical fertility professionals (doctors) are giving yoga the green light. The tide is turning in how acceptable yoga is to support women in their quest to become pregnant.

Medical acceptance of yoga as a stress reliever for infertility patients is slowly growing. In 1990, when Dr. Domar first published research advocating a role for stress reduction in infertility treatment, “I wasn’t just laughed at by physicians,” she said. “I was laughed at by Resolve, the national infertility organization. They all said I was perpetuating a myth of ‘Just relax, and you’ll get pregnant.’ ” At the last meeting for the American Society for Reproductive Medicine, Dr. Domar, now on the national board of Resolve, gave multiple talks, including one about how to help the mind and body work together in infertile couples.

And this is a national phenomenon, not just a jag in New York or San Francisco where there are always a handful of people pushing the envelope. Still, even with yoga's help, infertility doesn't sound like too much fun.

“A lot of people want to boil it down to ‘If you relax, it will happen,’ ” Ms. Petigara, a former in vitro fertilization patient who adopted a son, wrote in an e-mail. “I absolutely feel that yoga can have a very positive impact on infertility, but infertility is a lot more than ‘just relaxing.’ ”

Oh!!! As in, lie back and think of England? Well, yoga never was really about passivity.If you happen to be dealing with infertility right now, you can attend the March 17th tele-seminar on “Yoga for Fertility” led by Jill Petigara, who teaches in the Philadelphia area. But you'll have to Google the details. Food for thought

Need a Spot? Yoga on the Great Lawn, June 22

YogaGreat Lawn

Be one of the 10,000 people moving your asana on Central Park's Great Lawn next Tuesday (1 week folks!) June 22 for a HUGE group yoga class.Flavorpill sponsors Elena Brower (who' s done previous events at MoMA and The Standard Hotel) plus 20 live acts including musicians to lead an evening of yoga and New York City sweaty fun.Be one of the first 5 people to leave a comment on this post (or DM me on Twitter: "@Yoga Nation") and I'll guarantee you a spot! (be sure to leave me your email address)To take your chances in the open lottery (remember, they expect to overflow 10,000), register here and invite your friends.See you there!

All Things Considered tracks The Great Oom

Earlier this spring Columbia Journalism professor Robert Love published his book The Great Oom, The Improbably Birth of Yoga in America (Viking Adult, $27.95). This biography chronicles  Pierre Bernard's transformation from an Iowa-born nobody into a radical leader of mind-body consciousness--in the late 19th century. According to this NPR story, contemporary yogis have Bernard to thank for the existence of yoga in America. All Things Considers interviews Love on this fascinating story in which author Robert Love tells NPR's Guy Raz how Bernard weathered early rumors of rampant sex and drug use, and later an arrest, to lay the foundation for an empire. Listen to the interview with Robert Love on NPR here (opens an MP3 file).

Yoga in LA, Part 2

Path to my AirBnB

Coffee Intensity on Abbot Kinney

Pretty LA

When I found out I had to go to LA for a quick work trip I started planning what yoga classes I could slip in.

I would take Annie Carpenter at Exhale as soon as I landed, and Vinnie Marino at Yoga Works right before I flew out. With filming all day Tuesday in Glendale, east of LA, and meetings on Wednesday, there wasn't going to be time for much more.

And so I went for the high notes: two yoga world big shots who both taught in an area of the yoga world that is sometimes called The Mothership: Venice and Santa Monica.

For the few days I was working, I was psyched anticipating Vinnie Marion's class at Yoga Works before I returned to New York. I knew he had become somewhat of a celebrity since I was last in LA, in 2008, so I checked the schedule obsessively to make sure he would actually be teaching on the Thursday morning I had available.

I spoke to Joni Yong, L.A.'s Accidental Yogist blogger, who said she'd join me there. She warned me to arrive early since Vinnie's classes---even at 80 people in a room, and one inch between mats---sell out.

"Get there thirty minutes before. And bring a towel. You are going to sweat, and Yoga Works doesn't rent towels.

"Duly warned.The next day, I was up at 6 and already strategizing how to handle Vinnie's class.

I couldn't reserve a spot online—the YWMain web site was not set up for that—and I didn't have a towel. I didn't want to eat too much before class. But more to the point, I didn't know where to eat.

My friendly AirBnB host pointed me to some coffee shops along Abbot Kinney and Main Street. That's how I ended up at Intelligentsia for an over-the-top experience of a latte.

It was just after 7am, and the glass and steel cafe, set back dramatically from the boutique-filled boulevard, had only 4 or 5 customers.

("I never go there," said my host, "The lines are out the door. And it's such a scene. But at this time you should be fine.")

I parked right out in front and walked up into the recessed space. The guy ahead of me paused at the threshold. "PLEASE WAIT HERE" said a sign, "Your friendly barista will be right with you."

"You have to wait?" I asked the guy. "Right here?"

"Yeah, it's weird isn't it?"

It felt like being summoned before the royal court.

For their roles as courtiers, the four baristas, men and women in their late 20s, wore ties of a hipster persuasion: short, or frayed, or exactly matching material, or tucked in between the buttons of their shirt. They had determined but relaxed expressions as if gracefully embarking on difficult and highly important diplomatic missions. They were ambassadors, we were foreigners, and coffee was the king.

My courtier, once I was called to the bar, looked like he could be a cinephile when he wasn't pouring milky drinks. He had that wiry look (and scrubby facial hair) of the very smart and hyper active. He complemented my necklace and named the metal. Then he disappeared and two young women took over.

Caffeinated, I remembered I needed a towel. So I asked the baristas where, at 7:30 am on a Thursday, could I buy something, anything, even a face cloth or a dish towel.

"I'm about to take a really sweaty yoga class." I said, "And I'm getting on a plane right after."

They paused their creative work mid stream. "I think there's a CVS down on Main Street, not far away," said the younger-looking one. "They should have dish towels."

I found the CVS. It did indeed have dishtowels. I bought a package of 3 for a mere $2.99. Things were going well. And I have to say that the latte was delicious. Milk counts as food, I thought. This smooth and creamy beverage can be breakfast.

It was now 8:30.  I drove to Yoga Works and parked, proud to have found a spot (finding parking is an art that, as a car-less NYer, I needed more time to master). I was also way early, not my usual style.

Yoga Works is in a low building right on Main Street, with a small clothing boutique in the front and a lot of cubbyholes for shoes. The people waiting for class chatting comfortably with each other, like they might have known each other for a long time. They might have lived near the beach in Santa Monica for a long time, too. They were sunburned, fit, older, standing around  with their mats rolled under their armpits.

"I'd like to take Vinnie's class," I told the fresh-faced woman behind the desk

.And then I heard the words I most didn't want to hear.

"Actually Vinnie is not teaching this morning."

Argh! I'd booked my flight around his class. I'd arranged my schedule just so I could be here. I'd even checked the schedule repeatedly. How could this be happening? "But the sub is someone he's handpicked to teach for him."

That might be true, I thought, but she wasn't Vinnie.

I noticed that Joni, a self-described short Asian woman, was not there among the students waiting to take class. Later—too late—I got her Tweet: "Just found out Vinnie's class is subbed out this am and I've never heard of the sub teacher..."

There would be no happy pictures of this New York yoga blogger and that LA yoga blogger chumming it up at Yoga Works Santa Monica. Not today.

I had a few minutes to decide what to do, but I was pretty much backed into a corner. Classes at nearby Exhale were starting in 5 minutes, but I didn't know those teachers, either. Plus, I'd wanted to have a total Mothership Experience, so if I abandoned Yoga Works now, my experience would be lopsided.

I decided to stay. The nice desk girl gave me a free mat. I went into the studio and sat on the large, golden-colored floor imagining it covered, mat to mat, with sweating and grunting yogis. The Hispanic-looking cleaning ladies, in smock vests, were busily Swiffering the floor and ventilating the room with multiple fans. If Vinnie had been teaching, I knew I'd be one of those puddles they were now mopping up. My arms were still shaky from the Kundalini class I'd taken the night before in Hollywood, and my abs were totally wrecked.

Vinnie’s sub taught a muscular class that began with a quick Rumi quote and a long abdominal sequence. We were 10 sweaty folks instead of the rumored 80. Shortly after, she was calling out big poses that I didn't feel ready for. The general tone of the class was 'push your body.'

Maybe because I'd already done a yoga class each day for the last 3 days, or maybe because the rumor is true that in New York, yoga is not as hard as in L.A., I wasn't into working on such a purely physical level.

And, I thought, it was probably just as well that Vinnie wasn't there. He might have driven me completely into the ground.

Towards the end, the sub asked us to do more abdominal work, 20-30 "reps" of boat-pose to half-boat-pose and back. Instead, I sat cross-legged on my mat. I didn't want to, even to make her feel okay about her difficult position of subbing for a yoga celebrity.

Disappointed, tired—and frustrated by my incomplete Mothership experience—I headed to the showers. I was thinking about my flight back,  contemplating the differences between NY and LA, both culturally and yogically, as the water cooled me down. I got out, toweled my hair and wiped down my face, arms and shoulders. A woman from class was talking to me about the shower, was it warm enough, or cold enough, wasn't the temperature impossible to regulate? Were they going to fix it etc.

Half-listening, I looked back into the mirror I noticed my face was covered in pils of blue fluff. A slight blue tint was showing on my arms: the dishtowel was disintegrating on me. The more I wiped, the more the fluff appeared.

I switched to paper towel—but the fluff and the blue die was everywhere and I couldn't get it off me.

Naked, and a mess, I threw out all the towels and got back into the shower. This time, I wiped off with my dirty yoga clothes. It wasn't perfect. You know: their stretchy, wicking fabric is designed *not* to absorb water.

The best method, I realized, was to let the California air dry me. Maybe this is the updated version of letting it all hang out.

Yoga in LA, Part 1

Santa Monica has Yoga Works (Main Street) and Venice has Exhale Center for Sacred Movement, and between them they have Vinnie Marino, Sara Ivanhoe, Kathyrn Budig, Sarah Mato, Kia Miller, Sean Corn, Erich Schiffman, Shiva Rea, Annie Carpenter, Saul David Raye, and Hala Khouri. This is a phenomenal number of celebrity yoga teachers just a few miles apart.

In fact, I've heard people joke that if a bomb took out that 1 mile stretch between Venice and Santa Monica the American Yoga world would be significantly diminished. (Others don't think that would be such a bad thing.

No one is comfortable pairing "celebrity" with "yoga teacher" in public, although that doesn't stop thousands of new teachers secretly hope for a similar fame.)

I decided to start my LA yoga tour at Venice's Center for Sacred Movement.

I just landed in LA, picked up my white rental car, and drove to the beach. Well, I drove to the sand-colored, two story shopping complex that houses Exhale, among other shops and restaurants (including a sketchy CVS pharmacy, a Subway, and a nice-looking organic restaurant) parked underground, paid for my class, and took a walk.

I had interviewed the owner of RAWvolution, a raw foods restaurant, for a piece I wrote a few years ago, and knew it was in this general area, so I decided to check it out. The friendly Exhale desk folk assured me I could get there in 10 minutes, but at a leisurely jet-lagged pace it took me 20.

On the way, I passed cute boutiques selling loose white cotton shirts and dresses, Frye boots, and sun glasses. Familiar brands such as Free People, Patagonia, and American Apparel popped up here and there, and there were a number of “eco friendly” places such as the Natural High Lifestyle Shop, The Green Life, and One Life Natural Foods Market.

Plus, there were places that suggested everything that happened in this 10-block strip was carefully considered, including Mindfulness: Adornments for Your Home, Body & Soul, the Animal Wellness Centers, and the offices for Medicines Sans Frontieres.

There were plenty of coffee and teashops: I counted at least 8, and that didn't include what I glimpsed down the side streets. Not a lot of people were out mid-afternoon, but one guy I walked behind as he assessed the architecture of a bank with his buddy was wearing a standard issue LuluLemon jacket.

Once I got closer to Santa Monica, the loose and flowing clothing stores changed into edgier surf shops and skater supply stores. Younger boys in baggy pants starting appearing, as well as older, iconic buildings such as the Village Car Wash, and Surf Shore Motel, still very much in operation.

At last, I came across RAWvolution, a stone-floored cafe with comfortably mismatched tables and chairs and a big kitchen at the back where the foods were dehydrated and prepared. Everyone working there seemed extremely happy in his or her choice of employment, and everything there was expensive.

I had decided, as a special treat, I would indulge my fondness for kale chips no matter how much they cost. I just suspended all judgment as I handed over $7 for the 2 oz, the size of a small bag of potato chips (that in NYC go for $1.50).

With the help of the milk-skinned staff, I also decided to have a shake---something I could digest quickly before class. The Chai Milk Shake with coconut water, chai spices, almond milk and cinnamon would be too sweet, they told me, and so instead I ordered the Aztec Maca Shake: a low-sugar drink, said the menu. It had cacao, maca powder, coconut meat, coconut water, and mesquite. Maca was a Peruvian root that could boost dragging energy.

"Are you a raw foodist?" asked the wide-eyed guy with the thick bowl haircut behind the counter.

"No, just in town and wanted to check out your place."

"For work?" He asked, and I wondered if that meant I look old.

"Are you a yogi?"

"Yeah," I smiled. Yogi undercover."

“And you work out, you're into fitness?" He asked and I wondered if I looked buff to him, or just skinny.

"No, just a yogi," I smiled.

He looked hopeful for more conversation. I had the feeling he wanted me to tell him something extraordinary, like how I was raised by raw foodists on a remote island long before anyone had heard of raw food, or how I'd had a vision at the age of 3 and knew that I would never eat meat or cooked foods again.

Alas, I am just a curious but confirmed skeptic.

And, ironically, around the time I'd interviewed Matt Amsden, the founder of RAWvolution, I'd had such intense —and regular—stomach pain that I could *only* eat cooked food. Everything raw hurt me. For his part, Amsden admitted that he had just kicked his addiction to Doritos.

I sat at the communal table. In the middle had once been a bouquet of spring flowers, but they were now very dead, stems drooping, and the water mildewy.

Nearby was a deck of cards to accompany the popular New Age book by Don Miguel Ruiz, The Four Agreements.

Around the cafe a few people were reading, a couple of friends were playing cards, others were working at their laptops.

Distracted, I picked up the top card of the deck. It said, "stay in the present moment." That must mean stop making so many judgments. Because as much as I wanted to like the Aztec Maca Shake it was unpleasantly thick, kind of gravelly in texture, and so free of sugar that it tasted almost bitter.

It also had an unappealing near-chocolate color. "Carob brown," I thought. It tasted "good for you."

Still, it cost $7.50 so I intended to drink it all.

As I sipped, I glanced around. The walls were hung with framed prints of monks in orange robes and Acro Yogis in partner poses, set again a brilliant blue background. Someone had touched up photographs so that the figures looked smudged and lively, like they were still moving. Robert Storman was the mixed media artist, I read from text on the wall, and his bio said he was the "official artist of 2005's 47th Annual Grammy Awards" and that he's created a "body of work celebrating asana and soul."

I was officially in L.A. now.

+   +  +

"Namaste, yogis!" said Annie, a former dancer, walking off the stage in Exhale's large Sun Room. "Tonight we're going to do forward bends."

Great, I thought. That will totally pacify my nervous system after a long flight and all the work it took to make this trip happen.

The practice space at Exhale has a seasoned wood floor and a wall of glass brick facing Main Street. The side door was open while students filed in, and a pleasant early-evening breeze—and childrens' voices—wafted in, bringing a promise of long lazy summer evenings ahead.

Once we got going, I realized I was being too literal, thinking "forward bending" meant "seated poses."

What Annie meant was deep hip flexion: all those calming forward bends were happening in standing poses. And to do those, we released hamstrings and hip flexors—which after sitting and frowning over manuscript on the plane for 5 hours, were pretty tight on me.

As a former dance mistress, Annie's instructions were all business, and she held us in the poses FOREVER.

"I know, I know," she said, "I did this myself earlier today, just a few more breaths."

And for the first time in a good long while, I broke a sweat in a very slow and precise, alignment-oriented class. It was uber satisfying to feel my scattered, whiny mind focused, and my jet lag shift under the pressure of my concentration.

The class was deep and quiet, but *big,* with 40 or 50 people in it, very few men, and lots of 30s-40s age women with long brown hair.

Annie herself was a dynamo—insightful, thorough, fun—though so skinny that a few times I found myself wanting to feed her a heaping bowl of ice cream.

Maybe because she gave such super subtle and detailed instructions, at one point found myself much deeper into a standing forward bend than usual. Or maybe it was her adjustments. Somehow, in such a big class, she managed to make it over to me once or twice.

In cool down poses my mind was literally blank, and in savasana totally silent. Yum.

I left wondering why the alignment-oriented classes in New York have to leave me feeling like I still need a workout. Annie had worked me well.

After, I still had some kale chips left from my earlier snack. I could've eaten the whole bag on the spot.

In fact, the only thing that stopped me was that 3/4 of the bag were crumbs and hard to eat without spilling them all over myself. I waited to do that later in the privacy of my car.

When I did, I got crumbs all over myself and the car. I thanked the pros at Avis—in my mind— for vacuuming up the sea of small green flecks that decorated the seats and the parking brake.

Core Power Yoga: Part 2, The Hustle in Denver

The Hustle in Denver: Continued from Tuesday....

“For our annual review,” he said, “we have to give a private yoga class to a senior instructor. Okay. Seems doable, right?”

Only when his day came, this senior instructor turned out to be a nationally recognized yoga teacher, a big name, a celebrity.

“So you know,” he said grinning, “He was pretending not to listen and I was correcting him and stuff. It was just weird. Right? But you never know what curve-ball life is going to throw you."

Who was the teacher? What did Andy do? What was the feedback? I was dying to know. Someone in the class asked.

"Nope, not telling!" said Andy. "He gave me some good feedback that I've incorporated into my teaching today so here we go!”

Like so many yoga class pre-ambles, Andy's didn't quite connect the dots. Andy opened with a sequence of slow sun salutations to upbeat disco-y club music. It reminded me of Miami--super positive mixed with aerobics.

“C'mon people, let's move it.”

Thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump went the music. We cycled through the sun salutation sequence more quickly now, then held awkward pose and twisted. He adjusted me.

“Lift your thoracic spine!”

I noticed most of the students seemed to have had some good basic training. The two guys behind me were struggling--sweating and sliding and looking around. But most of the women were adjusting themselves as they needed, not pushing themselves into contortions out of their range. The women next to be chose to do all the hardest variations of many poses, but even so there wasn't too much of a show-offy vibe in the room. The practice seemed safe.

Huh, I thought. This is the formula, and it's kind of brilliant. A one-hour class (low commitment, low impact on your day), hot enough (gets you sweating so you quickly feel like you're working out), teaches safe alignment (so people don't get hurt), and just a little bit of dharma talk (how this applies to your daily life) with –oh no!--not the dreaded--It was true: ab work. Right, I thought, it's called “core” power yoga. I never liked working my abs, beginning as far back as grade school.

“Lift your elbow up to your knee! Hold! Switch! Hold! Switch! Now scissor kicks one minute! Go!”

Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch. Agony. Yet was this part of the appeal to my sweating class mates? You get to do yoga AND do the hard work of the gym, all in one place?Andy stopped us to demo crow pose, an arm balance. Then he demo-d one legged crow. Then he demo-d no-legged crow.

“So when life throws you a curveball,” he grinned, “you just gotta go with it, do your best.”

That was fine, but he gave no hints about how no-legged crow might be possible for us without abs of steel.

“Look at me!” he said, giving a second demo. “Use your core!”

I stuck with two-legged crow.Now thoroughly dripping with sweat we continued on with more standing poses, some backbends, a few twists, a shoulderstand. The music continued pumping. Everything was soaked. My hair dripped like a garden of wet snakes. The thin material of my pants was almost transparent. My face, red. Final relaxation was brief. I had just begun to relax when Andy started talking again. Another “jai!” with a floor slap and the class was over.

“Okay guys thanks a lot, have a great weekend!” Andy grinned, “And we have an inversions intensive coming up at our Cherry Hill location this weekend, also a level 2 training you guys should all do it, as well as more classes with me coming up! Thanks guys!”

I took myself to a shower in the women's changing room which was like a mini gym/spa mix. Three shower stalls with large plastic pumps of soap and shampoo, similar to a gym. The black stones inset into the floor (like a mat in front of each shower) had a spa-like quality to them. And for once I didn't mind the industrial-grade lotions: I had to be clean; I was meeting people for dinner. This was very convenient. And like any busy business person, I was already multi-tasking on my way out of the studio. I paid for my class while talking on the phone. I was signing my credit card receipt while negotiating: Could I be there in 10 minutes? In 5? Where was the restaurant? Could you, I asked Andy, call me a cab? How do you get a cab in this town? I hadn't seen any on the streets. Susan, text me when you know the address. Andy, yes I need one with a credit card machine. Oh, thanks for my card back. Yes, thank you so much for your help. Susan, see you in 10.

No one was left in the studio by this time with its little boutique and posters for trainings, boot camps, more classes, more workshops. In my purist yoga-loving heart I knew what I was doing—multi-tasking and not being very present-- was annoying and a big yoga no-no. But as a business person at that moment, it made sense, it was what I had to do.And in that moment, Core Power Yoga made total sense. I didn't have much time, I had a lot of things to juggle, I wasn't thinking straight, I was barely coordinating the elements of my life right. Core Power delivered all that I needed in a very manageable chunk, and I fit right in.

Meditation & "True Love": Musings for V-Day

I'm delighted to have a personal essay up today on the online magazine YourTango.com, "smart talk about love." It's a new venue for me---and a new genre. Soul baring!Well, soul baring with a purpose. I use a story of my own heartache to talk about a powerful meditation practice. For me, this is also a writerly experiment: the personal essay is a form I've long admired. Also, I've been trying to reveal more of myself in my teaching as a way to engage students and avoid setting myself up as an untouchable authority. After all, I am very human.Your Tango is a relationship-focused magazine, so while you're there you can also read why bad relationships are a waste of time, or watch a video of Valentine's Day cards we wished existed.My piece is How Meditation Lead Me to True Love, on the home page, and in it I tell you how, for me, meditation and love are related. Let me know what you think!Had any similar experiences?