Last night I went to yoga. I loathe yoga. It bores me and I’m bad at it. Generally I loathe the people who practice yoga and I have never met a yoga teacher I can deal with. On any level really. They’re all so WILD-EYED. Like the girl at the festival who pins you up against a portaloo, and jabbers away with a ‘Don’t you think?’ every few seconds.
I spurn the Zen and all ‘the earth, the sea, the fire, the water, return, return, return, return’ hokey bullshit. I utterly abhor the farty, mildewy smell that starts to rise from all the bodies and all the equipment about 20 minutes in. The music? Well it’s a parody, surely.
But it seems that I am now mature enough to rise above my knee-jerk to see that yoga might be the thing that allows me to tie my own shoelaces in 30 years time. That it might help me sleep tonight. That it very much feels like looking after myself. That I can take pleasure in rolling my eyes over all the ‘universe stuff’ while also appreciating that there may be something in it. In short, I can take what I like and leave the rest.
Clearly I am not that grown-up. But I’ll be going back next week and, who knows, I may yet hop on the bus to the self, through the self. Until then you yogis should know that there is a blot on your spiritual landscape. But I expect you’ll be fluidly forgiving about that…