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...