Yoga Unites and the Willie Nelson Autonomous Zone

...biked downtown in a cold light rain this morning to join hundreds of other people in a gigantic yoga class on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art...known locally as The Art Museum...yeah, those are the steps Rocky ran up...which, on this occasion, were soaked...I put my yoga mat down in a puddle...in the cold...never done yoga wearing anywhere near that much clothing before, but it worked out...legendary yoga teacher and founder of Yoga Unites, Jennifer Schelter, kept us moving...doing sun salutations until the sun actually kinda came out...

...the event, Yoga Unites for Living Beyond Breast Cancer, happens on the third Sunday in May, and this year raised over $100,000 for the LBBC, an organization that provides services to women who have survived or are currently struggling with breast cancer....and, overall, it's a hell of a good time...whatever the weather's like...

It's been rough and rocky travelin', but I'm finally standin' upright on the ground.
After takin' several readings, I'm surprised to find my mind`s still fairly sound.
Willie Nelson

...after that was over, got back on the bike and headed into South Philly...yeah, Rocky ran through there, too...for brunch with friends...and somehow ended up spending much of the afternoon in a bar...it’s all about balance...discussing, among other things, the recent talk of Texas seceding from the Union....I asked what about Austin?...Varina didn’t seem to care....I pointed out that Willie Nelson lives near Austin, and anyone who’d wanna deny U.S. citizenship to Willie Nelson clearly hates America...which is when Marty suggested that a Willie Nelson Autonomous Zone might be created...I suspect pot will be legal there....obviously, there’s a lot that’s gonna need to be worked out...

...photo stolen from most excellent yogini Melissa...who I think’s probably gonna be cool with that....

Untitled

...quiet November afternoon treading across arboreal curves high above the muddy banks of near-mythical Wissahickon Creek...exalted by Poe, as well as, in different registers, that motley assortment of dogs always swimming by the Kitchen’s Lane bridge...down from West Mt. Airy, State of Poignant Steady Exfoliation—which, quite unexpectedly last Tuesday, went green orange yellow even a bit of red as well as expected blue—along a narrow rocky path, not really marked on maps I don’t think but well traveled nonetheless...it makes no difference, not at all...feeling myself...but that didn’t come out right...or it did, but probably not conveying anything like what I meant it to impart...filthy minded readers...that sense of being embodied that gives an intense yoga session sometimes its more psychedelic qualities...the traipsing through some undiscovered country beneath and in the flesh...the body acoustic as well as electric...deep notes in every foot, toe, knee, back, neck, shoulder, head...knowing there...here...if only for a minute...then back to sleepwalking...along the muddy bank....

Now the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a loveliness that, were it flowing in England, it would be the theme of every bard, and the common topic of every tongue....the brook is narrow. Its banks are generally, indeed almost universally, precipitous, and consist of high hills, clothed with noble shrubbery near the water, and crowned at a greater elevation, with some of the most magnificent forest trees of America....The immediate shores, however, are of granite, sharply defined or moss-covered, against which the pellucid water lolls in its gentle flow, as the blue waves of the Mediterranean upon the steps of her palaces of marble.
Edgar Allen Poe

All the bullshit of the past texts? Simply gossip. Simply someone else’s ahh-moments on record. What are you here to do? Discover your own.
Jennifer Schelter

I’m no fucking Buddhist,
but this is enlightenment.
Bjork

Now I’m wondering if I should title this post Feeling Myself...would that get me more readers, or fewer? Not that I’d have any problems with any connotations it might bring up...even if that’s not what the post is about...nothing worse, certainly, than Shakespeare using all those dick jokes to tempt groundlings away from the visceral thrills of bear-baiting for an afternoon of theatre....Once saw Jon Stewart—the man who, it must be acknowledged at this time, did as much as anyone to get me through eight years of tortured American history—asking a crowd of five thousand: if you’re a guy and you don’t masturbate, clap...and you could've heard a pin drop.... I told that to somebody and she objected to the singling out of guys. I said I didn’t know if it was the same thing, remembering all those Alice Walker type stories about women empowering themselves by getting in touch with their bodies for the first time when they’re like forty...when, for an adolescent boy it’s more like something that just happens...by sudden, unnamed, undefined, unprecedented, unbelievable imperative...and then happens again.....

In Which Nothing In Particular Is Said

Man is quite insane. He wouldn't know how to create a maggot, and he creates Gods by the dozen.
Michel de Montaigne
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into

fragments

by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms toward

perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its

way into

the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-

widening thought and action—

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my

country

awake.

Rabindranath Tagore

That first quote came from Claire, and the second from Lisa Allender, who got it from Lydia, who got it from...I guess somebody named Rabindranath Tagore...whoever the hell that is...yeah, yeah, yeah, I know who he was...lighten the hell up, folks....Anyway...don’t worry, I’m not gonna use this poem to make any kind of statements about the upcoming election, or anything of the kind...What, me worry? Lately it seems like every conversation I have turns into an argument, including those that have nothing to do with politics—that sense of vicious competition, accusation, shameless lying, and overweening indignation is simply coursing through the lifeblood of the culture as we stumble through our days, always a little bit more edgy, anger fueling engines, now that it’s so much cheaper than gasoline. Last night I went to yoga class, which, like the past few Monday nights, kept crossing amazingly back and forth the line between intense workout and psychedelic experience....I suggested to my teacher, the legendary Jennifer Schelter, that we have a non-stop class for the next eight days, but I don’t think she took me seriously....

So what’s left but to drink coffee and steal poem fragments from other people’s websites? Anyway, what interests me is that one bit up there: Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; which, y’know, as my old hippie freak friend, and noted poetry critic, Jedediah, might say in between bong hits: duuuuude...that’s some intense shit...but that’s not, actually, what I’m gonna say about it...then, maybe I’ll just leave it to speak for itself...thereby, I hope, avoiding that desert sand, myself, and instead thank my blogger friend Christa for bestowing another award on this humble blog before wandering back out in the rain....

Is That Supposed To Be Funny??!!

The secret source of humor is not joy, but sorrow; there is no laughter in heaven.
Mark Twain

Did I really promise in that last post that I was gonna be funny in this one? Damn...there’s nothing worse than telling people you’re gonna be funny...that’s why I hate most stand-up comedy...especially, the I’m just a regular guy who’s gonna stand here and talk to you regular people and make some funny observations that you can relate to about regular day-to-day life kind of stand-up comedy...bleah...it’s much better to be angry-funny like Chris Rock, or horrified-by-the-outrageousness-of-what’s-going-on-in-America-funny like Jon Stewart, or severely-manic-if-not-coked-to-the-gills-funny like Robin Williams (not to be confused with the so-desperate-to-make-you-love-him-that-he’s-not-funny Robin Williams, the actor)...I, generally speaking, only find out I’m being funny when people tell me...see the predicament?

It’s such a fine line between stupid and clever.
David St. Hubbins, This is Spinal Tap

I was talking to somebody about my personal favorite Yoga for Cynics post...god, I also hate it when bloggers are self-referential...then, I kinda can’t stand that in general...even though I’m a huge fan of one of the seminal texts of postmodern metafiction, There’s a Monster at the End of This Book, starring Lovable Furry Old Grover (also a penetrating exploration of modern man—or, y’know, monster—in confrontation with his own id—kinda like Heart of Darkness for kids, and what could be more avant-garde than that?) (never mind that it’s been disgracefully overlooked by the literary critical establishment; so was William Blake)...and now, I’m being, like, meta-self-referential...and horribly ironic in the most pretentious postmodern kind of way...somebody could write a goddamn dissertation on this post...good god...the horror, the horror....

And, if I have been a little malicious, well, one must amuse oneself.
Madame Merteuil, Les Liaisons Dangereuses

Anyway...it was the one called Probably Not the Best Example of Loving Kindness, in which I talked about cursing somebody out—in a bit of rather obviously ill-advised bicycle-on-car road rage—on the way to yoga class. People have suggested that I probably wouldn’t have done that on the way home from yoga class...and they’re probably right. In fact, I may be able to provide an illustrative anecdote...jeeezus, did the pretentious academic in me just pipe up again? Never mind...this one time, I think it was last winter, I’d just gotten home from a class with legendary yoga teacher Jennifer Schelter, and walked, with a spring in my step, feeling optimistic and full of good feeling toward my fellow human beings...really...up to my local coffee shop, the High Point Cafe...now, this place is kind of a center of my friendly little community (West Mt. Airy, State of Caffeinated Stupor, USA). The place was packed. However, just as I got my coffee, two older women were standing, putting coats on and clearing dishes away from the table where they’d been sitting. I asked if they were leaving, and one of them said “yes” as they moved away from the table and I set my coffee down. Seeing a couple of crumpled up napkins left on the table, I decided to be helpful and throw them out. Upon turning back to the table however, I was confronted by the other woman, who, in a voice more like a low, mentally unbalanced hiss, said “you’re a bit of an asshole, aren’t you?” I said “excuse me?” “Putting your coffee down on the table before we’ve left...” she intoned, almost shaking with rage. “But...you had your coats on...you said you were leaving...you were walking away from it...” I sputtered as she turned her back, perhaps with a final muttered asshole for good luck. My good mood kinda dissipated. While my friends behind the counter more than sympathized, and joked about it, I was really really upset—all the more so because I’d been in such a good mood before this little incident happened. Why the hell, I thought, did this have to happen when I was feeling so good?

Then, however, I asked myself the question: how might I have reacted if I hadn’t been in such a peaceful, positive mood? Let’s just say it’s a good thing I went to yoga class that morning....

Yoga For Cynics, an Introduction

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
Walt Whitman

That said...what the hell is “Yoga For Cynics” supposed to mean?

A couple years ago, I thought of creating a blog with the stipulation that all posts would be written under the influence of at least half a six-pack. Though the Web cried out forlornly for more drunken rants, that one, somehow, never made it past the “ask somebody how to set up a blog” stage. Some time later, I managed to put a different one on-line with a few posts which turned out to be...sober rants, angst without the alcohol...it died unmourned. More recently, having, somewhat improbably, gotten seriously into that mellow, positive downward facing dog thing, I came up with an idea for a magazine article called “Yoga for Cynics.” That never actually materialized either. However, in a moment of mystical rapture—or perhaps merely heavy caffeination—the inspiration came for...another blog!

That paragraph didn’t really answer the question, did it? This one will try harder, perhaps even going so far as to organize its ideas in a clear, outline-like fashion (this blog is gonna be disciplined! Far more yoga-like than cynical in that respect. Maybe), like so: a) the yoga aspect will (hopefully) provide a much needed balance to the cynical aspect, and b) a couple months ago I went on this week-long yoga retreat to a place called Maya Tulum, in Mexico (organized by legendary yoga teacher Jennifer Schelter) (who seriously kicks ass) (in a positive, nurturing kinda way) (yogaschelter.com). There I encountered this amazing writer/performer/teacher/holy lunatic named Ann Randolph (annrandolph.com), who inspired the idea of writing posts in twelve minute bursts, holding back nothing (though I’m not actually doing that with this post) (and probably won’t with some others) (most likely I’ll also cheat by thinking before and editing afterwards) (hell, it’s my damn blog). Anyway, we’re talking about free flowing inspiration from the core of one’s being and...well, actually we’re probably only partially talking about that, but it certainly seems like a cool idea. Let’s see how it goes....

If that’s not enough, there’s also c) the basic concept of the unwritten article, which may not end up having a hell of a lot to do with the blog. Nonetheless, it probably would’ve been something along the lines of: as “spiritual paths,” “means of attaining inner peace” or “traditional/holistic/post-hippie alternatives to taking truckloads of psychopharmaceuticals to keep from diving off a cliff” go, yoga is ideally suited for those who can’t write “spiritual paths,” etc. without putting said terms in quotes yet still feeling kind of embarrassed for using them in the first place. This has something to do with that “mind, body, spirit” thing your yoga-obsessed cousin’s always going on about in trying to get you to eat her macrobiotic vegan okra muffins.

Alright, so, obviously, that “spirit” part’s gonna a sticking point for the skeptic, since, contrary to the solemn intonations of that guy you know who dresses in bright pastels, has the world’s smallest ponytail, plays the didgeridoo, talks about his crystals as if they were children, uses “healing” as an adjective, and claims to have been Native American in a previous life, concepts like “spiritual energy, the “immortal soul,” and the very notion of “enlightenment” remain highly questionable. Hell, even Ram Dass said that anyone who claims to be enlightened probably isn’t (then, I don’t exactly trust Ram Dass, either). And that’s not even getting into the really metaphysical stuff like reincarnation, karma, discorporating into a floating glowing being of pure love, or, of course, the big G. Sure, there’s that great history of spiritual traditions followed by wise men throughout the world’s societies, but isn’t that at least balanced out by the bloody history of organized religion? James Baldwin wrote, “if a concept of God has any validity or any use, it can only be to make us larger, freer, and more loving. If God cannot do this, then it is time we got rid of him.” Some might say that this would entail dumping much of the world’s “life of the spirit.” (By the same token, Pat Robertson’s denunciation of yoga as Hindu idol worship does give it a certain appeal in a spiting-the-religious-right kind of way) (though, on second thought, spite might not be the best motivation for doing yoga).

So, then, there’s “the mind”—also a ludicrously vexed concept, and one that remains so poorly understood that many of today’s respected mental health professionals actually think it’s a good idea to pump Adderall and Ritalin and god knows what else into any kid intelligent or creative enough to be bored silly by an educational curriculum based on standardized test preparation. Nonetheless, the notion that contemplative practices can be useful in dealing with depression, anxiety, addiction and so on has been steadily gaining ground (Yoga for Depression is a really good, accessible book on the subject by Amy Weintraub, who, I might mention, was extremely kind and gentle in waking me up every time I started snoring doing those yoga nidra things at Kripalu) (the program started at 6:00 AM for chrissake...). Still, despite what people in your local coffee sangha might say, many of those who get their information from empirical research rather than channeling the spirits of druidic warrior goddesses are still pretty dubious on the subject (though, admittedly, medical researchers channeling the spirits of pharmaceutical companies providing their funding can produce dubious results as well). So, ultimately, while meditation, tai chi, and yoga are certainly a step closer to rational acceptability than past life regression or praying to the Holy Virgin, they still might not be close enough to make those of inherently doubtful dispositions want to do headstands.

Which brings us to the somewhat obvious reason so many people are doing reverse triangle at your local strip mall: the physical benefits, including the justly celebrated, round-and-firm-as-a-pair-of-ripe-grapefruit “yoga butt.” Much of what goes on within this recent craze might, of course, be characterized as the yoga equivalent of that “smooth jazz” crap they play on the radio—often virtuosic if completely lacking in substance. But does this, necessarily, damn the agnostic to a Kenny G. approach to yoga? I’m more inclined toward what might be called a John Coltrane/Miles Davis version—requiring a reasonably open mind and willingness to at least try and calm the mind and ponder whether the “spirit” actually exists as something more than a mass of badly confused cells in the brain while doing a hundred and eight sun salutations. Should none of that ultimately work out, it won’t change the fact that I’ve saved my knees, overcome chronic tension headaches, and generally become more studly (though, y’know, that won’t matter so much once I’ve overcome the ego).

That said, this blog probably won’t have much to do with asanas (that’s the physical postures of yoga, for those of you who get irritated rather than feeling mystical energy crawling up your spine when you see Sanskrit). That’s also a good thing. Not long ago, this woman I was kinda sorta involved with said she was curious about yoga and wanted me to teach her some. I told her I’m still working on not hurting myself by overstretching my hamstrings. Hell, I’m still not even sure what hamstrings are.

In the end, whether this blog actually has anything to do with yoga or not is for the reader to decide. I’m just gonna write it.