Yoga Poem #4
I tried Bikram yoga--twice. "The second
visit means you're stupid," a close advisor
said. The instructor copped the attitude
of a fussy German bureaucrat, and her
male assistant acted like her pet. Hand-
lettered signs adorned the place
concerning what and what not
to do. The room was too goddamned
hot: Ockham's Razor slices through
the Bikram. So as not to stroke out,
I finally just lay on my mat, opened
my mouth as I'd seen hot hounds do,
and rested like a tranquilized polar bear.
The instructor approached, loomed over
me with her microphone headset, said,
"You must close your mouth. Otherwise,
we'll think you're dead." I found her
concern touching. In the locker-room
afterward, three of us commiserated,
heads smoking. One guy made a business-
call on his cell-phone. The assistant appeared--
having been eavesdropping, it seemed. He
ordered, "No cell-phones in the building."
When somebody starts trying to control
your behavior beyond the mat, you have
the makings of a cult. And as they say
in Zen business school, "Don't forget
who the customer is, grasshopper."
But at the other yoga place now, I've
been encouraged to let such attachments
go before beginning the session's practice.
So I'm letting go of oven-yoga. Really.
I'm really letting go of it. After all, some
people seem to like it.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom