jump to navigation

There are no yoga cops: coming to terms with your sadhana June 29, 2011

Posted by Simon Maxwell Apter in Essays.
Tags: , , , , ,
trackback

I’m not immune to negativity and disenchantment, and if I’m not careful, I can lapse into outright cynicism. About three weeks into my Jivamukti Teacher Training in Rhinebeck, N.Y., I found myself becoming increasingly disillusioned with what I was being taught. There was too much unquestioned reverence, I thought. There wasn’t enough room for debate and dissent. There were short answers given to questions that guys like Rumi, Thomas Aquinas, and Keith Richards had spent lifetimes pondering.

Whether it was the string of 18-hour days; the never-ending kale, collard-greens, and lentils buffet at the dining hall; or the upper-respiratory bug that had been plaguing me since the second week, I’d just about had it. Maybe I’d heard the word “guru-ji” one too many times. Whatever it was, for a couple of days, I crossed over the dark side and indulged my inner cynic.

We were made to learn, for example, a list of ten ways a student can honor his teacher. It was all perfectly respectful and reasonable, but from my hole on the dark side, I saw it as Orwellian. I spitefully let my imagination carry me away to North Korea. Number 1, for example, instructs a student to use honorifics when referring to or addressing his teacher, which I took as the equivalent of referring to the long dead Kim Il-sung as “Great Leader” and to his megalomaniacal son, Kim Jong-il, as “Dear Leader.” Number 8 directs a student to ask his teacher to stay in his life, which to me sounded analogous to supporting the hereditary Stalinist dynasty that the Kims had established in Pyongyang. And number 9 charges a student to pay attention when his teacher teaches, to not let the mind wander. Admittedly, I thought USSR, not North Korea, on this one, but the enjoinment nevertheless reminded me of those apparatchiks whom Stalin had sent to the gulag for, allegedly, not laughing at his jokes or for being the first to sit down during a 30-minute standing ovation. Yes, for these and every other item on the list, I’d listed their totalitarian corollaries in my notebook.

As training crept by and my imagination ran rampant, I felt more and more like an outcast, a heterodox dissident living on borrowed time until the “Yoga Police” ferreted me out and banished me from Jivamukti. I even designed a medallion for the Yoga Police Department, which my roommate quickly christened the “Bitter Badge.”

The "Bitter Badge"

But mercifully, the truth dawned on me soon thereafter: There are no “Yoga Cops.”

My practice—and yours—are personal journeys, private experiences. One’s entire sadhana is, in effect, carried out entirely behind the closed doors of one’s body, mind, and soul. One student’s maddeningly rigorous regimen of asana is no better or worse, no more right or wrong, than another’s hours of devotional chanting. Built into yoga’s existential paradox—that it is both the end of the journey and the journey itself—is the space for you to define it how it benefits you—and the people with whom you share your life—the most, and the most joyfully.

Karma teaches us that the intention behind an action is far more resonant than is the action itself; indeed, one’s intention is a transformative agent, the reason behind one’s behavior and the mold into which the wet plaster of action hardens into result. When I set aside my cynicism—and, alas, handed in the Bitter Badge—I found my intention to be no less devotional, no less pure than my fellow trainees. After all, though we had different bodies, different expressions of different asanas,  we were all striving in Rhinebeck for the same thing; that is, the teaching tools and expertise required to instruct others onto their own paths. We were taught to respect our students’ journeys, just as our teachers respected ours. Even if the Yoga Cops had raided my room, they’d have found woefully little evidence to arrest me of any yogic “crime.”

When I was in middle school in Oregon in the early nineties, the skaters would spare no opportunity to slap a “Skateboarding is not a crime” bumper sticker on any accessible flat surface, even the backboards of basketball hoops. After my imaginary run-in with the Yoga Cops, I finally figured out what they meant: no matter what others think of it, skateboarding is definitely not a crime. Neither is your yoga practice.

Advertisements

Comments»

1. Derek Goodwin - June 30, 2011

just watch out for the karma police.

2. carla ricciardone - July 7, 2011

Simon…your a hoot!

3. Bell Loretta - July 9, 2011

yeah baby…. will work on a more coherent response, but for now, suffice it to say, i getcha


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: