The last time I was here greenery trailed from each floor like the Gardens of Babylon. But this year, in an attempt to brighten a dark winter, a thick fringe of white lights hang from the ceiling ending about twenty feet above the atrium restaurant. The effect is dizzying. Seizure inducing if you’re of that ilk.
The good news. I woke at 5:30 with a new game plan. Galvanized. Hopeful. I jotted down a few ideas before they melted away, drifted back to sleep and woke again to see the red sunrise reflecting off the Bay Bridge.
After a shower I walked over to the Ferry Building, enjoyed a non-fat latte and strolled among the fruit and vegetable stalls. Yes, I strolled (those of you who know me know that I do not, by nature, stroll). I sampled fermented carrot (an acquired taste) and pickled okra (yummy even on an empty stomach) from the Cultured Pickle Shop and then made my way back to the atrium restaurant for breakfast.
I may have been a little harsh yesterday. There are plenty of wonderful reasons to attend the conferences Yoga Journal hosts around the country, month after month, on and on, forever and ever Amen. Ooops. I think I meant to say “Om”.
Give me a moment to contemplate these reasons while I dig into a bowl of steel cut oats large enough to provide sustenance into next Tuesday.
Right. Sorry. Can’t do it. Trying to defend these conferences is a little bit like me trying to defend chiropractics. While I know having regular visits to a chiropractor resonates with plenty of people, it doesn’t with me (for the record, I’m a fan of acupuncture). And I know there are attendees here who are being opened to new ideas, new ways of thinking, new poses. New ways of being. And, with all sincerity, that is wonderful. But I’m not. Because in the back of my head there’s a little voice whispering, “this isn’t what yoga is supposed to be.”
I think the epiphany arrived as I worked through a rack of organic bamboo/cotton blend/75% spandex yoga trousers woven by Blind Monks from Tibet. Or maybe Alabama. The clothing was very beautiful and very, very expensive. The tag suggested that wearing the pants would change my life. I’d find freedom. Liberation. Breathtaking beauty. Wearing that particular brand of clothing pretty much guaranteed powers of levitation on the way to Nirvana.
I understand that we pay a price for what we love and that in the 21st century Yoga is Big Business. But can we try to make it a better, more beautiful and honest business? One of the reasons I support Jason and his Three Minute Eggs (see yesterday’s post here) is because he doesn’t promise Enlightenment. He doesn’t suggest I’ll be more wonderful than I already am if I use his eggs. He simply made a good prop better. You have to admire his ingenuity while slapping yourself on the side of head and saying, “why didn’t I think of that?”
As far as teachers go, that’s why I admire Paul and Suzee Grilley and Gil Hedley. They teach from the heart, with humility. Yes, I pay for their teaching the same way I pay for Jason’s blocks. But they share their knowledge with loving generosity.
My life challenge is jealousy and envy. So I suppose there is always the possibility that these feelings of cynicism are coming from that dark place. Would I feel the same way if Yoga Journal asked me to teach? Am I jealous that I don’t have a book to hawk or a clever prop to demonstrate? Maybe. Maybe not.
Or maybe the truth is my heart is weary of watching the thing that has given my life depth and character being demeaned by the competitive marketplace in front of my eyes.
And maybe I learned more than I thought this weekend.