Enlightening Nonsense

Someone who found a wallet in a Dunkin Donuts in Harlem contacted me. The notice I put up in various bathrooms across the city saying, “IF ANYONE FINDS A WALLET IN AN ESTABLISHMENT THAT THE MERE FACT OF ENTERING WILL CAUSE A PERSON TO LOSE AT LEAST THREE YEARS OFF HIS LIFESPAN, PLEASE CALL” were starting to pay in dividends. Apparently my “Swami” card was found in the wallet and the absentminded yogi/truth seeker had a thing for cream-filled pastries.

The woman who found the lost wallet told me that there were a bunch of pictures of a white guy with an Asian girl. I thought this was a little kinky but after taking my questioning down the road of, “Is there any bondage involved?” I pretty much concluded that it was just lovey-dovey, holding hands kinda images and somewhat lost interest.

Then a spark of interest hit me like a brick thrown out of an 18-wheeler driving at 70 M.P.H. “Is there any money in the wallet? Because I distinctly remember lending a yoga student and his <AHEM> her partner a bunch of money and if it’s in the wallet, we could probably cut out the middleman and—“

“There’s no money in the wallet.” This woman wasn’t only a Good Samaritan but a fantasy destroyer as well.

“So there’s no money and no dirty pictures—why exactly are you calling me?” It just didn’t make any sense to me.

“I want to see if you can help identify the person whose wallet this is so we can get it back to him,” she explained.

“So you’re hoping for a reward then?”

“No, I just want to get the wallet back to its rightful owner,” she answered, and I finally figured it out: she was one of those goody two-shoes I’ve heard about but have never come across.

I knew one white boy/Asian girl couple who took yoga classes with me and sent him an email saying that a woman found a picture with a Chinky girl and a repulsive looking guy and did he lose his wallet. He didn’t. I then asked him if he had any pictures of him and his girlfriend involved in bondage that I could have. It has been a week and I haven’t heard back from him.

I met with the Good Samaritan and although I couldn’t identify, nor get wood from, the people in the pictures, I learned a lot about the history and culture of Samaria. Apparently it was an agricultural society that at one time thought if they planted chickens in the ground they could grow a whole field of chickens. This resulted in The Great Chicken Rot of 113 A.D. and, needless to say, a year where everything grown in that field was tainted with the taste of dead chicken and the resulting phrase that is still used today when eating something unfamiliar, “It tastes like chicken.” I also found out that the slaughterhouses and fast food restaurants of today have only slightly modified the Samaritan chicken disaster in the preparation of the tortured chickens they sell and serve today. Ah, the lessons of history!

So, in the hope of claiming the unannounced award for myself and totally cutting out the good Samaritan, I sent out an email to my list of yogis saying that a wallet was found and if the loser had any pictures involving bondage with he and his girlfriend and a handful of cash, I would gladly find it in my heart to have the wallet returned. Always the educator, besides the contents of the wallet, I included some healthy eating advice as well:

It was left in a Dunkin Donuts in Harlem. I would say, “Serves you right for eating that crap!” but even I’m not that much of a prick. Alright I am.”

The last time I sent out a bulk email to my yoga peeps, which was barely racy at most, the result was that about fourteen people, most of whom had never attended single class or RSVP’ed, left the group.

[“The Great Exodus” http://rebelyogi.com/the-great-exodus]

While I was actually glad to do some much needed Spring cleaning of my group, as it was already summer, anticipating such sensitivity regarding this email, I closed it with a message to those who would be late-joiners to the “Exodus” group, hoping that they would at least RSVP the group and let them know they were coming:

I’m assuming at least five of you who have never attended a class with me nor RSVP’ed will leave the group because I used the word “prick.” I’ll miss you dearly.

The next morning at about 6:00 a.m., Lisa started her day by writing me an email in which she asked to be removed from any future emails that I would be sending, using words such as “disturbing,” “bombastic” and “bothersome.” It was a real education for me, as I hadn’t known the word bombastic before her email and it was a great addition to my vocabulary that contains mostly four-letter words sprinkled with a few yoga poser words like ego, enlightenment and Namaste.

Rather than just saying, “Good riddance to you,” I gave Lisa a parting teaching that apparently would be used to shove under the leg of a wobbly table. I shared with her that not every meal is to everyone’s liking but that when we start calling meals “good” or “bad,” “pious” or “evil,” that we are not living the yoga idea of “union” which includes the New-Age platitude of “We are all One,” but are just posing.

I also asked her why she wrote me. If one got a haircut every other week at a salon and it was never to her liking, she wouldn’t make a special trip to the salon, using up valuable carbon credits that would have no impact on the environment except for lining Al Gore’s companies pockets so that he can add to his already environmentally wasteful house. She would just not go back. By going back there must be a need in the woman with the insanely rapid growing hair to tell the hairstylist that he sucks. I suggested that Lisa use the yogic principle of svadhyaya (self-study) to examine why she needed to tell me that I can’t cut hair for shit when all she had to do was leave the group and she would never hear from me again, besides from the occasional “flasher” stories reported in the news.

You won’t learn these lessons in most yoga classes because they all tend to be all about how not to disturb anyone out of the comfortable lie they live to insulate themselves from really coming to an understanding of Who They Are. Sometimes one has to be a bit “bombastic” in order to destroy the yoga studio that has just become a prison to true understanding and to help someone like Lisa to see that the real disturbance is never from the outside in the form of a person or a particular action, but comes from the inside. I shared all of this with Lisa and suggested she reflect on what particular beliefs and needs made her write her email to me and suggested that if she did so she would learn a lot more than any “Good work, Lisa! Nice downward dog!” class.

Lisa wrote me back in the typical New-Age passive-aggressive manner.

“Interesting that you think you know me and about my practice. Wishing you the best. And if you want any pictures of me in bondage, just let me know. Lisa.” (Okay, perhaps I added the bondage line.)

I wrote Lisa back and told her that I never claimed to know her or her “practice.” Perhaps she just wanted what is typically taught as yoga, a low-impact aerobics class and it would be arrogant of me to assume she wanted to explore the deeper aspects of yoga. Then again, I am arrogant. I told her that it was funny that one who seemed sensitive to being judged would find it easy to judge me, despite never taking a class with me. I suggested that she had a fixed understanding of what is “yogic,” which most think means you smile like a Stepford wife and never show any emotions that stray from the fake ideal of “absolute bliss.”

I also shared with her how I have received dozens of testimonials that don’t say “Swami X provided me with a great workout!” but say, “You helped me to think about things differently” and “You’ve helped empower me to change my life.” From people who care less if I use the word “prick” and more about where I can help them travel.

I told her that her use of the word “practice” to describe her yoga, a pandemic in the yoga world worse than the laboratory created Swine Flu, is indicative of someone who sees their yoga as something “preparing” them for something “else,” the way one practices soccer in order to prepare for a future game. “It’s all the game, Lisa.”

I concluded my email to Lisa with:

“I just gave you something to think about, Lisa, and that is “Why?” Take it or leave it. Love me or hate me. The only thing that really matters is if any part of what I said can help you become more of the person you want to be or not.

I do want what’s best for you and if my style of communication is not to your liking, I would like you to find what works for you. But life is not just “bliss,” Lisa, despite the New-Age yoga posers reciting this as a mantra. If we avoided all difficulties, we would leave our boyfriends/husbands/girlfriends/wives every time they irritated us. In this disposable culture we discard everything often without putting in the work to see if it is possible that by looking at it in a different light we can make it work, be it a friendship, a love or, dare I say, even a yoga class. If one translation of yoga is “union,” from my experience, it seems that many in the yoga world care less about union and more about how their downward dog looks.”

Lisa wrote me a one-line response saying that she studies with “an amazing teacher” and while she can appreciate my input, kindly fuck off.

My own svadhyaya over the years has brought to light some of my own buttons, such as the frustration with feeling misunderstood, my need for being treated with respect and honesty, and my desire for pictures of people in sexual bondage. Was there some of that at play in my email responses to Lisa? Of course.

But what is so easily missed is the fact that I have often shared teachings with people who I will not only never see again but usually don’t always address me in the friendliest manner. Lisa was polite enough on the surface but she was essentially saying, “You’re an asshole and I just want to tell you that.” How many yoga posers would justify dismissing leaving the dismayed student with one more teaching that they can take with them, chew on and spit out the fiber with the hope that maybe they could absorb some of the useful nectar? Most will put on their egoic costume of “Yoga Teacher” and say something that sounds profound like, “They are just not ready for what I have to teach,” or “It’s their karma,” when really what they are not saying is, “She disturbs my costume of being the great teacher that everyone loves. Good riddance to her!”

How is this any different than the bullshit Christians who say, “It is not for me to judge, as only God can judge”? While under their breath can be heard said with pleasure, “And he will have you burning in Hell for eternity, you sinner!” For all the talk of “love” and “forgiveness,” it seems they relish in the fact that many will be burning and suffering for eternity—according to their own delusionary dogma—while they’ll be partying it up in Heaven with no “sinners” to dirty up their white, puffy clouds. How could one who isn’t a total prick enjoy harp music and wings while they close their ears to the screams and suffering of their brothers beyond the Pearly Gates.

I leave teachings with the new members of the “I HATE SWAMI X CLUB” in the hope that, in their own time, they will ponder it over, take what is useful, discard the rest and become closer to their ideal expression of soul for them, knowing that I will never see the result of my teachings or their own personal work.

I have also been forced to humbly wear their brand mark of “PRICK” on my forehead as they throw their daggers at me and spread the word about how “bombastic” I am. In truth, I have not always worn it humbly. I am human and subject to the same human frailty that hurts and joys and frustrates and elates. And yes, at times it hurts when I am kept on the periphery, shut out of being allowed entrance into the great party above. But looking at all the people who claim to be on the guest list of this exclusive VIP party in the sky, I think I’d rather give my soul to Billy Joel than Jesus and quote my new Lord and Savior:

“I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, the sinners are much more fun. Darlin’, only the good die young!”

-Billy Joel, “Only The Good Die Young”