My Yoga Teacher is a Cannibal

It’s the only explanation for the words she chose to use during yoga class.

Everything was going great at first, the yoga studio was dark and lit with flickering candles. There was so much zen and namaste up in my third eye I had to use eye drops to get some of it out so that I could see. (?) I’m fairly sure there was Buddhist monk chanting which made me feel holy and special inside. But then, the teacher ruined it.

“Okay, now make sure that you’re opening your right hip; feel how juicy it gets, just get it juicy.”

I definitely misheard that… did she just say that my hip should feel juicy? 

“Now we are going into Crouching Eagle Pose.”

*awkwardly bend into a human knot and fall over, pretend I did it on purpose and reach for water bottle*

“Everybody is doing great… Let’s take a few breaths. Breeeeeeeeeeathe in Peace… Breeeeeeeeeeeeathe out Joy… Inhaaaaaaaale Truth… Exhaaaaaaaaale Identity… Truuuuuuuth is your Identity… Let Identity be your Truuuuuuth.”

What is happening? I feel weird. There are too many weird feelings. I don’t want to be here. This is weird. 

“Now raise your hands to the sky… if it feels right. Honor yooooour Body… Honor yooooour Truth… Honor yooooour Identity.”

I’m fairly crunchy, hippie granola-y but this is crazy. I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. Lady, I don’t want to join in on your pagan rituals, just show me how to do this pose. I’m good with just focusing on breathing in oxygen. 

“Sit deeper in this position, your thighs should be feeling really juicy right now.”

I swear, the next thing she says is going to be, “Now, take out your bottle of A1 Steak Sauce and slowly shower yourself in it. Then stand over one of those candles and roast yourself. Make sure that you feel juicy.” 

Maybe I am immature. (Okay, I am.) But this yoga class was just too much for me.

I kinda feel like a steak though…

- Daughter

 

 

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I Don’t Want to Be Part of Your Grooming Ritual, or My Namaste-less Day

I forget that besides awesome people at college, there’s also really ridiculously strange people – other than myself – at these type of institutions.  Today, I was happily absorbed in a conversation in my religion class, discussing the ways in which Buddha should try to diet and lose that little belly of his when suddenly, a girl to my left picked a stray feather off of my fleece.

No warning. No “Hey, I’m going to go ahead and enter your personal bubble and pop it with my prying, plier-like fingers.”

I was shocked: 1) I did not know this person, 2) I did not ask to be part of this monkey-grooming ritual she just initiated, and 3) maybe I was saving that feather for later to build a cultural appropriation-themed headdress to offend all races/colors/ethnicities/breeds/species? WHAT THEN?

You are not my mother.

You are not my mother.

My down jacket likes to shed itself on my inner layers of clothing and I’m at peace with that fact. I’ve obviously absorbed the Buddhist teachings we were learning about today and applied it to my own life: life is suffering and suffering is knowing that pieces of feathers and fluff and bellybutton lint will end up on my pristine Northface fleece; such is life. But this girl – this..this.. creature - thought she could just friend-level jump all the way to Best-Friend/Groomer/Mother-Figure. And she totally broke my meditation I was having with that feather – NAY – that remnant of a flight-driven beast whose spirit I was intimately connected to and – dare I say it – loved. I was at peace with that feather. The act of taking off that feather from my fleece was her saying, “NO NAMASTE FOR YOU.”

"Oh, I do love being a monkey ever so much!"

“Oh, I do love being a monkey ever so much!”

It seems innocent enough, she was just getting a bit of fuzz off of my jacket. But it’s actually not. I never gave her permission to steal my possessions away from me. What next, the shirt off my back? No thanks, random class stranger. No thanks. And I’m not into monkeys like that.

- Daughter

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