No buts about it: Woodbourne, NY is a rustic, homegrown Jewish town of the most orthodox sort nestled into the Catskills mountain under a blue sky. So driving past Mazel Wok, a kosher Chinese eatery, and a small grocery in which lettuce -- lettuce?! -- was labeled in Hebrew, I began to wonder what these signs portended for the deaf yoga retreat I'd signed up for at the Sivananda ashram.
Clearly there would be No Target, No Starbucks. Crapola.
And then my carpool drove up the gravel driveway to the yoga ranch and we saw this statue of some longhaired dude wearing a shawl in prayerful pose.
Oh no. What the hell is this? Where are the massage rooms? The drinks with the umbrellas in them? Where are the bellboys? Dude, my bag is heavy and I need my bellboy!!!
Quickly it became apparent that this ain't no spa resort. No walking in shoes indoors. No air conditioning. No meat, fish, fowl, caffeine, narcotics, alcohol, and get this -- NO ONIONS AND GARLIC?! Wash your own dishes. To enter the temple, no sleeveless shirts allowed. Not even yoga tank tops.
Lights out at 10:30. Devotion at 6 am. Asana class twice a day. Never done a headstand before? Doesn't matter. Try one now. "It's about the journey inward, not the achievement of the pose itself." What the fuck does that mean, and how the fuck is that gonna help me stand on my freakin' head when standing on my feet is hard enough?! Lectures at 1:30. Karma Yoga at 11 -- some cool new kind of yoga? Yeah right. It's a fancy name for community service. I folded enough sheets and towels to tie myself an escape rope down the mountain.
After more than a few of us started grunting during our second round of Sun Salutations, the teacher in our first class exclaimed, "Who said yoga was easy?!" I giggled through the sweat dripping off my nose. Yeah. I giggled. Giggling was the only way I could keep from slapping her little bindi-ed head off her lithe little body.
By the second day I was in tears. I was nauseous, sweating, suffering from the worst heartburn I've had since I was pregnant, my ass hurt like a bitch, my boobs were always in the way, popping out of every sweat-soaked sports bra I'd brought, and YET everyone else around me seemed to walk around floating on air and smiling as if this wacko cult lifestyle was the most natural thing on earth.
Drugged-up idiots. Something in the water.
I paged CK: "Hon, I'm ready to come home. Get me the fuck out of here."
But Lila, the founder of the DeafYoga Foundation, seemed like a kindred spirit, so, in a last-ditch effort to turn this torture into something worth the money I'd spent on the retreat, I sought her out after dinner.
"I can't do this," I told her. "I'm too fat, too slow, too weak. I just can't do this. I feel like I'm learning a lot here, but I'm really not happy. This isn't right for me."
Well, what she said was meant for my eyes only, but the next day I woke up laughing. The day was still a real challenge for me and my inflexible and weak limbs, but suddenly I had to restrain myself from hugging every person I saw.
"I love you," I finally let myself gush to Janet from California, a fellow retreater who'd also been struggling, but for different reasons. "Oh, I love you TOO," she gushed right back.
Slowly it began to dawn on me what this yoga stuff was really about and why I'd been so drawn to this non-sweaty stretchy-workout thing.
One day, we were doing our seated forward-bends, and I was reaching and reaching, smooshing my belly and boobs down into my legs as much as I could, fingertips grasping for the air beyond my toes. I was gasping and aching, but dammit, I was gonna be flexible and lean and a freakin' yogini!!!
That's when Lila bent down into my field of vision, laughed, and said, "There's no fireworks happening out here. Relax. Hold your ankles if you want. Relax your shoulders. Breathe. Enjoy the moment. This is supposed to represent surrender."
Surrender?! WTF? But on that third day after Lila and I had our conversation, the word surrender finally made sense. I fell into the daily routine at the ashram, letting the sarcastic cynic I'd been when I arrived truly go on vacation, and a peaceful, jubilant calm fell over me, even as I was trying -- to no avail -- to balance my legs on my elbows in the most infuriating pose of them all, The Crow.
So here I am now, at home, post-ashram. I still can't do a headstand, and I'm not a lithe little yogini who's all calm and spouts beatific wisdom by the second. But I am happier than I was when I left for New York. I'm more aware of a lot of things, and I'm less self-critical.
So now you know why I haven't been blogging much lately. I've been too blissed out.
Lights out at 10:30. Devotion at 6 am. Asana class twice a day. Never done a headstand before? Doesn't matter. Try one now. "It's about the journey inward, not the achievement of the pose itself." What the fuck does that mean, and how the fuck is that gonna help me stand on my freakin' head when standing on my feet is hard enough?! Lectures at 1:30. Karma Yoga at 11 -- some cool new kind of yoga? Yeah right. It's a fancy name for community service. I folded enough sheets and towels to tie myself an escape rope down the mountain.
After more than a few of us started grunting during our second round of Sun Salutations, the teacher in our first class exclaimed, "Who said yoga was easy?!" I giggled through the sweat dripping off my nose. Yeah. I giggled. Giggling was the only way I could keep from slapping her little bindi-ed head off her lithe little body.
By the second day I was in tears. I was nauseous, sweating, suffering from the worst heartburn I've had since I was pregnant, my ass hurt like a bitch, my boobs were always in the way, popping out of every sweat-soaked sports bra I'd brought, and YET everyone else around me seemed to walk around floating on air and smiling as if this wacko cult lifestyle was the most natural thing on earth.
Drugged-up idiots. Something in the water.
I paged CK: "Hon, I'm ready to come home. Get me the fuck out of here."
But Lila, the founder of the DeafYoga Foundation, seemed like a kindred spirit, so, in a last-ditch effort to turn this torture into something worth the money I'd spent on the retreat, I sought her out after dinner.
"I can't do this," I told her. "I'm too fat, too slow, too weak. I just can't do this. I feel like I'm learning a lot here, but I'm really not happy. This isn't right for me."
Well, what she said was meant for my eyes only, but the next day I woke up laughing. The day was still a real challenge for me and my inflexible and weak limbs, but suddenly I had to restrain myself from hugging every person I saw.
"I love you," I finally let myself gush to Janet from California, a fellow retreater who'd also been struggling, but for different reasons. "Oh, I love you TOO," she gushed right back.
Slowly it began to dawn on me what this yoga stuff was really about and why I'd been so drawn to this non-sweaty stretchy-workout thing.
One day, we were doing our seated forward-bends, and I was reaching and reaching, smooshing my belly and boobs down into my legs as much as I could, fingertips grasping for the air beyond my toes. I was gasping and aching, but dammit, I was gonna be flexible and lean and a freakin' yogini!!!
That's when Lila bent down into my field of vision, laughed, and said, "There's no fireworks happening out here. Relax. Hold your ankles if you want. Relax your shoulders. Breathe. Enjoy the moment. This is supposed to represent surrender."
Surrender?! WTF? But on that third day after Lila and I had our conversation, the word surrender finally made sense. I fell into the daily routine at the ashram, letting the sarcastic cynic I'd been when I arrived truly go on vacation, and a peaceful, jubilant calm fell over me, even as I was trying -- to no avail -- to balance my legs on my elbows in the most infuriating pose of them all, The Crow.
So here I am now, at home, post-ashram. I still can't do a headstand, and I'm not a lithe little yogini who's all calm and spouts beatific wisdom by the second. But I am happier than I was when I left for New York. I'm more aware of a lot of things, and I'm less self-critical.
So now you know why I haven't been blogging much lately. I've been too blissed out.
Bliss out!
But no air conditioning nor garlic? I'd die.
At least for a couple days.
Posted by: Josh | August 01, 2008 at 02:29 PM
"Giggling was the only way I could keep from slapping her little bindi-ed head off her lithe little body."
oh my my, allison. how i love you too! *me giggles*
and two things:
1) i'll go with you next year, we laff-laff can.
2) looks like you're ready to go to india! ;)
namaste! *bows*
Posted by: shilpa | August 02, 2008 at 12:39 AM
OMGosh, this was the most hilarious and well written yoga article i have ever read... literally! :) Thank you so much for bringing me to tears in my small, but quiant, simple room at the Yoga Ranch. I look forward to seeing you again soon. Thanks again for not slapping me! :) jk...
Posted by: Lila | August 02, 2008 at 11:14 AM