YOGI...BARE!!!

Recently, a yogi friend sent me the weblink for an online video of a well-known L.A. yoga teacher.  As I would expect from a well-known L.A. yoga teacher, the video was shot at a beautiful outdoor setting, with soft natural lighting and ocean waves gently splooshing in the background.

What I would NOT expect from a well-known L.A. yoga teacher is for said yoga teacher’s online video to be a butt-naked, no-holds-barred, Triple-X-throwdown P-O-R-N-O.

First, shock and awe.  Next, confusion.  Why?  Why would a well-known L.A. yoga teacher (hereafter referred to as YOGI XXX) risk his professional reputation for probably less money than he’d make in a week?

Forget moral judgment, which is so 1953.  Consenting adults can do whatever they want with their sex lives as long as it doesn’t harm animals or minors, or leave suspicious residues in my hotel room.

Far more disturbing than the actual sex act was the raw display of naked ego.  L.A. is a town where fame and infamy are celebrated in equal measure, regardless of their relevance to a person’s actual profession.  Should it matter whether Yogi XXX is perceived as sexy or skanky, if the result is one more person in class, at a workshop, or on a retreat?

As the yoga world expands, so too does the ambition, narcissism, and overt sexuality that increasingly blurs the lines between what we do to sustain a healthy career and what we do to glorify our egos. 

So, what does it mean to be a “well-known L.A. yoga teacher,” circa 2011?

Evidently, the ascent to “well-known”-ness begins with social media, base camp for the intellectual and emotional disrobing of the soul.

TO BE CONTINUED...

YOGI, UNPLUGGED

I recently said goodbye to a dear friend, whom I’ve known since early childhood.  One who cheered me up when I was down, who nurtured me in times of loneliness and transition.  As I matured, however, my dependency somehow evolved into guarded resentment, my friend’s once-comforting voice more of a nagging background din.

When a relationship fizzles, hards choices must be made.  Without warning, I drove both of us to a remote, industrial part of Santa Monica, hidden in the murky shadows of the 10 freeway.

There, I yanked my life-long buddy – so many memories! -- from the car and straight into a deep metal bin.  Thud.  No tears, not even a final spark of regret.

My friend is a TV.

It went where other items at the Santa Monica Electronics Disposal Station go…that big Circuit City in the sky.

Resounding silence ensued.

And then, haunting questions.  Who’s the Biggest Loser?  Who will be the next American Idol?  Where’s the beef?  Who shot J.R.?  Will I make it, after all?

More silence followed, and I began to fill that extra head space with reading, writing, sleeping.  Conversations about self-indulgent reality stars fell by the wayside, my dreams no longer smeared by the Progressive Car Insurance lady’s thick mascara.

As I learn to remove the things that mask my anxiety or sadness or fear, the picture gets a little clearer, the color sharper.  Modern architect Mies Van der Rohe famously coined the phrase, “Less is More.”  In a world that Facebook conquered, however, that phrase too often translates as Less is Bored.

A (human) friend of mine recently quit his six-figure job and joined the Peace Corps in South Africa.  When summer arrives, he’ll need to walk half a mile to gather water from the nearest source.  Safe to assume he’s not spending his evenings watching, “Bethenny Ever After.”

In his first email to me in several months, he described his initial foray to a local tavern – the quirky personalities, the cheap brew, the cloudy, plaintive night sky.  Despite his fatigue and second thoughts, his communiqué from across the world was vital, poignant – media as connection, not distraction.

I miss my Peace Corps friend.  And no Snooki, Real Housewife of Orange County, or Royal Wedding can ever replace the real thing.

WHAT WOULD CANDY DO?

I, CANDY.

Candy Spelling -- mother of reality-star Tori and widow of legendary TV mogul Aaron Spelling -- is downsizing.

She’s swapping "The Manor," her 55,000-square-foot Holmby Hills manse (asking price: $150 million), for a modest $35-million, penthouse condo. 

"I need something smaller – just for me," she tells People.com.  Her new master bedroom will be 4000 square feet, or roughly the size of my elementary school.  "I'm going to have to give up some things, but it's time for a change."


As someone who buys discount pasta, I'm driven to ask:  Has reality ever set foot upon Planet Candy?

When confronted by people I consider, um...off-putting, it’s helpful to remember -- as my yoga mentor once said -- that everyone is simply trying to be happy.  Establishing that most basic common ground is crucial to cultivating the opposite of negative or harmful attitudes, a practice ancient yogis called pratipaksha bhavanam.  Not to be oversimplified as a karmic “turn that frown upside down,” pratipaksha bhavanam compels me to seek both the humanity and divinity in those whom I would typically shun.

In an online appeal to her oft-estranged daughter Tori, Candy wrote:  "I'm a mother who, like every mother, wants communication and a great relationship with…my daughter, and [her] family.  I'd love to work it out the way all families try to resolve issues.  In private."

A heartbroken mom reaching out to her only daughter?  Maybe there's some sugar in this Candy.  I imagine a scene…

INT.  “THE MANOR.”  GIFT-WRAPPING ROOM.  EARLY EVENING.

French doors fly open!

  

Enter CANDY, tear-stained eyes.  She smashes an expensive and conspicuously UN-OPENED GIFT-BOX onto the floor.

CANDY

Ungrateful!

We see a postal notice stamped on the gift:  “RETURN TO SENDER.”

Reveal MADISON, a knowing nod, though he can't read.  He meets Candy’s beseeching gaze, more wariness than compassion in his moppy eyes.

Madison is Candy's PET TERRIER.

CANDY

(soft wail) 

Oh, Tori...can't you see I'm TRYING?

Candy clunks her iced tea onto the wrapping table, anger subsiding to grief.  She turns to Madison.  Crouches low.

CANDY

Mama needs a kiss.

Madison FREEZES, then DARTS behind a spool of blue-grosgrain ribbon, nervously licking its frayed edge.  Candy SIGHS heavily.  Et tu, Madison? 

A LONE ICE CUBE sinks slowly to the bottom of Candy's highball glass…

FADE TO BLACK.

We've all navigated dark corridors of the human condition -- feelings of abandonment, loneliness, depression -- seeking a glimmer of light and love at the end.  Yet, it's all too easy to hoist ourselves onto pedestals, lambasting the weaknesses that we see in others but refuse to recognize in ourselves.


Pausing to observe what unites, rather than divides, us as flawed humans, takes our yoga practice far deeper than any asana ever could.  If that insight can transform even the tiniest amount of animosity into its opposite -- genuine empathy, maybe even love -- a burden lifts, giving the spirit room to grow.  


I may not live in "The Manor," but there's no reason why my heart shouldn't fill that space.

Screen captures taken from Yahoo! Shine.  Click here for full video.

SEX AND THE SINGLE YOGI

To sexually active yogis, practicing celibacy may seem a tad extreme, even if those same yogis aspire to an “authentic” yogic lifestyle.  Yet, the classical yoga philosophy outlined by Patanjali’s “Yoga Sutras” specifically advocates the practice of brahmacarya, often interpreted as “celibacy” in some translations of that ancient text.  “When one observes celibacy,” Barbara Stoller Miller writes (Sutra II:38), “heroic energy accrues.”

Heroic energy, yes…but at what price?

The standard line in contemporary teachings is that brahmacarya -- one of the yamas, or self-restraints, that constitute the first of eight limbs along the yogic path to enlightenment -- originally advocated celibacy for single yogis and monogamy for married ones.  In short, it’s less about the sex act and more about practicing moderation in our energy and behavior.

I knew a dedicated yoga teacher who often mentioned in class that he had practiced celibacy for five years while studying at an Indian ashram.  Considering the amount of time many people spend thinking about, looking for, and actually having sex, such restraint could certainly free up a lot of energy for meditation, devotional work, perhaps an extra game of Scrabble.

Okay, a LOT of Scrabble.  For most of us, celibacy sets the bar too high.

Bridging that familiar chasm between over-indulging our natural desires and reaching for philosophical ideals is what Buddha called the “middle path.”  It steers us away from addictive or compulsive behaviors, while sparing us the impossible burden of perfection.  Whether we’re constantly seeking sex, splurging on designer clothes, or downing a plate of Christmas cookies, moderation is a smart option, especially in this season of holiday excess.

Brahmacarya may not be sexy, but it’s certainly good for your wallet and waistline.

YOGA FOR MAD MEN

For 13 years, I worked in a beige corporate office with no windows.

Sort of like "Mad Men," without the skinny ties and martinis.

In fact, my office was reasonably spacious, well ventilated, and efficiently furnished -- a decent starter home in an upscale neighborhood.  The putty-hued loveseat was comfy, if too short for stretching out, a la Business Class.  Themed coffee mugs and the occasional novelty item -- Harvey Pekar bobble-head doll (!) – spread across my blond-wood desk, its Scandinavian design somehow both sleek and bland.  Should I ever feel too insulated, a Bora Bora photo tacked to my corkboard would surely transport me.  Yes, I could thrive here in relative peace and solitude…

...BUT, what began so promisingly as a professional sanctuary gradually degenerated into a spiritual coffin.  A groove had formed on my loveseat’s armrest, where I lay my head every day for a restless, torqued-knee nap.  Even Harvey sat beneath a thin coating of dust that no amount of bobbling could shake loose. Bora Bora had betrayed me.

And then I discovered yoga.

Suddenly, every piece of office furniture became a prop for my expanding asana practice.  Reclining on the loveseat, my legs folded into Baddha Konasana (Bound-Angle Pose), sometimes even Half-Lotus.  Lunch breaks found me fumbling into Headstand, followed shortly by modified Shoulderstand, hips supported on a loveseat cushion.  A tall bookcase measured my progress in Utthita Hasta Padangusthasana (Standing Hand to Big Toe Pose) -- a burst of pride as I ascended my leg from shelf three to shelf four!  Kicking up to Handstand required laser-like focus and agility, lest I distract adjoining podmates from their personal phone calls and Internet porn.

It was, as asana always is, just the beginning. Eventually, my practice expanded to the point where it pushed me off the loveseat for good, revealing an escape window from that beige office...