.jpg)
Viewpoint
A Slacker Yogi is Reborn
by Patricia Alfano
It was 1970 in Berkeley, California, when I entered a dark room with illuminated candles and a beautiful woman standing on her head.
Fresh from the east coast and looking for an exercise program, I had wandered into a local recreation center where the patchouli-scented class was being led by its inverted instructor. That evening I would learn that the woman’s name was Wendy, and the class was called yoga.
The practice of yoga hadn’t quite made it to the city from which I had recently moved. Most of my neighbors in that location got their exercise by boxing, roller skating, dancing and running from the police. Anything more exotic was looked upon with great skepticism, which warranted extensive criticism.
Back then, I was materialistic and self-absorbed and wanted a new physique resplendent with curves and toned muscles. Inner peace and the outer manifestation of connectedness with the universe was not part of the immediate plan. Yet, something lured me to this class and its teacher.
Intrigued by the surroundings, I entered the room, put down my mat and began following the others in bending my limbs into pretzel-like shapes. Sitting cross-legged, I chuckled to myself as I thought about the “guys” in the old neighborhood and the raunchy jokes they would be making right now if they saw me. I could hear the ridicule in my mind and picture the hand gestures that would accompany the taunts.
Suffering through the asanas (yoga postures), I reluctantly joined the others in preparation for meditation. Up until this point, I had never meditated and could not fathom a mind void of thought. I resisted. I had grown used to the 2,000 mouths inside of my brain all talking at once, and was fearful at the thought of silence.
The meditation exercise was miserable. I lay there staring at the ceiling and counting the acoustic tiles. I thought about my grocery list, my new apartment and job, my new friends and the big protest march in which we would all be participating. My mind was wandering all over the place—and I was cold.
“Where is your mind?” Wendy queried in a soft, sultry voice through the darkness. “Gently bring it back,” she added.
What if the mind doesn’t want to come back? I thought. After going through the to-do list, my particular mind was now enjoying a fantasy and it wasn’t ready to leave.
When the class ended, I decided another type of exercise would be on the agenda. This yoga business was far more tedious than I’d expected and demanded too much discipline. But by the next week, something changed my mind and there I was once again breathing in and out by candlelight in a crowded room.
Over the course of the next few years, I would be drawn like an invisible magnet to this place where body and mind became one. Slowly, the desire for perfect abs was replaced by a need to tap into the same essence that Wendy possessed. I wanted the calm, centered and lovingly detached demeanor that was an anchor of universal wisdom and spirituality in its finest form. I also wanted to learn to stand on my head.
The more I practiced, the more the lens through which I viewed myself and the world changed. Shedding my old spiritual skin, I redefined myself with a new one that possessed greater clarity. The rebirth was both agonizing and delightful as I learned to breathe through the pain—in life as well as stretching.
My new-found awareness took on a life of its own. I abandoned an abusive marriage, went back to school and learned to eat healthy food. The earth was now my mother—not something to be taken for granted. Old friends went away, and new ones took their place. Trusting in the universe became easier. Sometimes things worked out and sometimes they didn’t, but the idea that it was all an illusion brought comfort and tranquility.
And then it all came to an end.
I left California and abandoned my practice. I got caught up in the routine of running a business, caring for a child, and economic survival. But through it all, the connection deep within patiently waited to rise again and resume its path. The seed planted all those years ago had roots, and the lotus was aching to blossom.
When I finally was able to return to California, I made a promise to myself that I would leave the slacker yogi behind and resume my practice in earnest.
In this New Year, with all its potential and possibilities, I am determined to take up where I left off and renew my dedication—beginning with finding a teacher. I have confidence that this teacher will appear soon.
After all, I still need to learn to stand on my head.
Patricia Alfano is a writer who lives in Ocean Beach, CA and works for a local university. Visit her website at www.bohemianopus.com or contact her at pat_alfano@hotmail.com.