A heroin crack cocaine blood of a junkie whoreshake?
We nodded. “Well now, let’s see,” she said, looking up at the rafters. “What’s in a milkshake like that? I’d guess it’s chock full of coconut. And vanilla. And sugar?” She lowered her gaze, simultaneously thrilled and pissed. “And it’s fun to drink sugary drinks, isn’t it? Doesn’t it make you want to drink more of them? Don’t you wish you could have one right now?”
We nodded again. And then things went a little weird.
“Now, I’m sure you remember the man just outside the wantilan today, right? A man cleaning a dead chicken?”
I was a little thrown off by Indra’s question, honestly. I had noticed the man with the dead chicken—he was shirtless and standing up to his thighs in the river that runs between the forest and the rice fields, and he was cleaning the chicken on the bank where we walk every morning to class. There were chicken guts all over the path, so we had to hop over them, Jessica squealing as she jumped. But I couldn’t see what the connection was between a little milkshake and a pile of chicken entrails.
“Weren’t you repulsed by those chicken guts?” she said, smiling slyly. “Is there anything so disgusting as the bloody insides of a dead, headless chicken?” She seemed to be waiting for a response, which came in due time—from my growling stomach. Roast chicken. Crispy golden skin. Sides of mashed potatoes and green beans with butter and garlic. So I suppose the answer would be No. Not exactly repulsed.
“Well,” Indra said, ignoring my stomach’s editorial reply, “if you want to experience worldly pleasures like milkshakes, then you must experience the revulsion of the chicken guts.”
She quoted the Upanishads from memory:
Like two birds perched in the selfsame tree
Intimate friends, the Ego and the Self,
Dwell in the selfsame body.
The former eats the sweet and sour fruits of the tree of life
While the other looks on in detachment.
Indra explained that these two birds, the lower bird and the higher bird, represent the world of attachment and separation, and the indivisible Self. The lower bird is the material world, and everything in it, good and bad. So the lower bird is Gandhi, but he is also Hitler. He is the milkshake, and he is the chicken guts. “The lower bird,” she said, shaking her head sadly, “wants nothing more than to embrace the illusions of this world, and so he must suffer along with his joy.”
She paused, thinking. “But the higher bird,” she said, “is detached from all worldly illusions, all worldly desires, and so he is at peace.”
Jessica sighed and lowered her head respectfully. I looked down as well, studying my hands and trying to figure out what the hell Indra was talking about.
I think I get it now. It’s different from the Judeo-Christian view of the angel and the devil, one on each shoulder. In the Upanishads, the angel and devil are on the same shoulder, both trying to keep you attached to this world and believing yourself to be separate from everyone else. On the other shoulder is the higher bird, detached from all pleasure and pain, just sort of chilling out. The higher bird has perspective, you might say. You might say that he doesn’t sit on a shoulder but higher up, on a shoulder pad. The lower bird is down in the scrum of life, lost and confused.
“The beautiful thing,” Indra said, now smiling around the circle, “is that once you can be detached from that milkshake, you can step over or into those chicken guts and not feel a thing. Just as the higher bird would.”
With that, Lou asked us to return to our mats to begin the first rounds of sun salutations for the day. And just as I reached my mat, I heard Indra, her voice smiling, say, “And, Suzanne! Just remember one thing: One kundalini breakthrough? Doesn’t mean you’ve won the race.”
Later
Jessica is beside herself. She came home and did fifty sit-ups on the veranda as penance for the milkshake. But then she got up and joined me at the table and said, “Suzanne, I know we’re not supposed to want the milkshake, but ever since Indra said those things about the higher and lower birds and how we should be detached from the milkshake, I can’t stop thinking about it. I just want another one so badly!”
I told her she’d just summed up exactly what it’s like to grow up Catholic.
But then I remembered something: Indra is my teacher, and she knows what she’s talking about. One kundalini breakthrough isn’t enough. I need another one. And the only way to have another one is to stay on the path. So I looked Jessica in the eye, and said, “Now, we could act like most Catholics I know, and go out and drink ten coconut-vanilla milkshakes in rebellion, or we can think of it this way”:
(I felt really wise, like a real yoga teacher.)
“The milkshake, Jessica, doesn’t exist. It isn’t real, so why would we want it? What is real?” I asked her, rhetorically. “What is real is the Self, and that is what we are here to attain. Union with the Self. Freedom from desire. Desire keeps us attached to life, and attachment to life makes us fear death. No more milkshakes, Jess. Back on the path.” I nodded at her, putting my hands together in namaste and lifting them to my lips. “Back on the path,” I repeated. Then I went inside, thinking, I’ll leave her with that.
Hmm. I wanted to record this because I was feeling really good about myself, having seen the proverbial light and imparted it to my friend. But now, reading my words over, I wonder if maybe I spoke less like a sage and more like a douchebag.
The thing is, I’m a little embarrassed, but at the same time I really believe what I said to Jessica. It’s time to get back on the path, and stay there. We’ve got less than a month left here, and soon we’ll have to start practicing as teachers. In just a few weeks I will be responsible for teaching an entire class on my own. So today I practiced on Jessica. Maybe I sounded a little douchey, but it’s also possible that that’s just what a real yoga teacher sounds like. Maybe my ears haven’t adjusted to it yet. Maybe my ears are plugged by irony and cynicism. And who knows? I may have gotten through to her. I can hear her out there doing more sit-ups, and maybe that’s just what she needs to do to have the discipline to conquer her desires.
I’m going down to the pool. My stomach is a little upset from all the excitement today. Or, who knows? Maybe the sugar we drank last night is affecting my system—I haven’t had sugar in over a month. Seems like my stomach is rebelling against it a little. I’m going to take it easy till the afternoon class. No need to push it. A little poolside meditation and I should be right as rain.
April 6
What. The. Fuck. What the fuck!
I am so upset. Indra, my God. I don’t understand!
I’ve been doing every pose for them. For Indra and Lou. In surya namaskar, I extend, I reach, I’m watching where my knee is in relation to my ankle. I’m focusing on my breath. I wait for them to tell me it looks good and then I make it even better. And yet! Today, while in paschimottanasana, WHICH MEANS SEATED FORWARD BEND AND SEE? I EVEN KNOW THE POSE NAMES IN FREAKIN’ SANSKRIT, Indra did something so unexpected, so out of character, so cruel, I can hardly write I’m so angry.
We were in our Forward Bends. My Forward Bend, if I dare say so myself, is pretty good. I ease my way into it until my rib cage rests on my thighs, and then I fold over like a piece of paper. I might not have any upper-body strength to speak of, but on a good day my hamstrings are so flexible I could jump rope with them. That’s not ego, that’s an objective truth. I’ll be the first to admit that I can’t do a push-up. When I try to do a push-up I look like a dog with broken hind legs, whimpering and waiting for the needle to put me out of my misery.
But in Forward Bend I lean into it, I ask for ease in my legs, I search for sattva. And I have to say: having had a kundalini experience, I know what motherfucking sattva means.
It means balance.
Anyway. So I was in my Forward Bend. My irreproachable Forward Bend. The sun was hitting my back, warming me up so I felt even more flexible.
Indra wove slowly
through our mats, speaking in her gentlest tone, the one she uses when we’re in restorative poses. “Your Forward Bend is such an important pose,” she was saying. “It’s one of the most introspective poses, and I’d like to thank all of you who haven’t studied at our studio in Seattle for recognizing that.”
Naturally my ears perked up at that last bit, because I am the only one in the wantilan who has studied with them in Seattle. I leaned deeper into my Forward Bend, now, thinking that Indra was going to use me as her example. That I wasn’t included in her statement because my Forward Bend was simply in another league.
“This is such an introspective pose,” she continued, “it deserves to be respected. But I am frequently disturbed to find that the Forward Bend becomes a competition for who is the most flexible in class.”
I felt Indra standing beside me, blocking the sun.
“Competition,” she said, “is not an introspective activity. So I’d like to thank you all for overcoming that urge to compete.”
She put her hands on my sacrum, now, guiding me deeper into the stretch. “With that in mind,” she said, “Suzanne, would you please watch the rounding in your thoracic spine? Just ease into it, and remember: there’s no need to be competitive.”
!!!
Um, excuse me?
I’m sorry, but who do I have to compete with here? Last I checked, I was the one who was so deeply meditative I had a fucking seizure!
I have to go back to class in thirty minutes, but I feel like I should just skip it and stay home to meditate on my own, without that negative energy messing up my practice.
I’m just so humiliated. After she called me out, I closed my eyes and tried to look unfazed, but I could feel the blood burning through my cheekbones and forehead like acid through litmus paper. I was sure I could feel my yogamates smirking, and probably exchanging amused glances. I’m sure they were loving it. I’m sure they couldn’t wait to talk about it over lunch. Honestly, when I think about it, they’re all really hateful people.
Indra continued moving through us in her lovely yoga outfit, flowing green pants and matching tank, and I felt disgusting in my own hand-washed black yoga pants, a little crisp at the hem and waist, my black tank top sweaty and stretched out at the neck. I felt revolting.
You know what just occurred to me? Maybe Indra has never had a kundalini experience. Maybe she’s the one feeling competitive, because she’s afraid I’m going to become a more powerful yogini than she is! Maybe this is all an attempt to keep me under her thumb!
Oh God. No. No, sweet Jesus, that’s a ridiculous thought.
OKAY, I’VE DONE some alternate-nostril breathing and I’ve made myself a cup of tea. I’m looking down at my yogamates who are starting to come up from the pool to get ready for our afternoon class. And you know what? This makes perfect sense. This is how it should be. I get it now.
Here’s the thing: I’ve had a huge spiritual breakthrough. So it’s like I’ve graduated to a whole new level. Like I’m getting my PhD in yoga, now. So of course it’s going to get harder. It has to. So if Indra’s on my back more than she used to be, it doesn’t mean she’s a cunty, cunty, Cunty McCunterson.
Ahem.
No. God, no. It just means she’s trying to guide me to be a better yogini, and that I NEED TO PUT MY BLAH BLAH EGO ASIDE AND BLAH BLAH DETACHMENT BLAH BLAH.
Ugh. Whatever. I’m going to bed. If anyone bothers to wake me up in time, I’ll go to class. If not—I really don’t give a damn. I feel like I’m getting an ulcer anyway, so maybe I should just call in sick. Yes, if we had a freaking phone, that’s exactly what I would do. I would call in sick.
5. The Prisoner
Walking the spiritual path properly is a very subtle process; it is not something to jump into naïvely. There are numerous sidetracks which lead to a distorted, ego-centered version of spirituality; we can deceive ourselves into thinking we are developing spiritually when instead we are strengthening our egocentricity through spiritual techniques.
—CHÖGYAM TRUNGPA, Cutting Through
Spiritual Materialism
If you want to learn about your ego, punch it a few times. It’ll swell up nicely, better for proper study.
Not long after my thirtieth birthday, I took a six-month break from yoga after a woman in an SUV bumped into my kneecap while I was crossing the street. For months, the most exercise I got were the lame leg-lifts prescribed by an indifferent physical therapist. As my muscles atrophied, so did my spiritual discipline. I didn’t meditate or chant or read the Sutras. And when I finally decided I was well enough to brave a yoga class, I discovered the meditative aspect of the poses—turning my gaze inward, focusing on my breath—were impossible when I could barely hold a lunge without shaking like a broken-down dog.
Now, to be clear, even after my time in Bali, when I was in the best shape of my life, I’ve never been one of those yogis who can hold all her weight on one arm or do any of the other fancy-pants variations. The one thing I’ve always been able to do is concentrate. But with my left leg aching, I couldn’t find that place where the movement becomes meditation.
While the rest of the students blissfully extended into their Warriors, I attempted several variations before the shaking and whimpering were too humiliating, too ego bruising in a class with so many lithe and lovely über-yogis. So I gave up and rested in Child’s pose, prompting the teacher, a stoner-eyed white boy with short brown dreadlocks, to float over to my mat. He put his hand on my sweaty back, and I lifted my head.
“You know what?” he purred, nodding, smiling. “Guess what? It’s just pain.”
“Um—”
“Just tell yourself that it’s only pain.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I know, but I have an injury.”
“Oh,” he said. He looked disappointed, cheated out of his sutra lesson. “Okay, then. You should rest in Child’s pose, I guess.”
It was all I could do not to tell him that ordinarily I’m pretty good at yoga. No, not just good at it, great at it. I had a kundalini experience! Just five … years … ago.
Oh, ow. Oh, my ego. My poor, sweet, deluded ego. If I thought Indra had bitch-slapped my ego in Bali, my knee injury five years later turned out to be much, much worse.
I decided to take up smoking again. I do that about once a year, and it seemed like the time. I bought a pack at a deli, grinning at the cashier like he was my accomplice. It’s just cancer, I told myself on the walk home. Tell yourself that they’re only carcinogens.
It didn’t take long for me to come down with a bad chest cold that kept me home, flushing my few remaining cigarettes down the toilet and cursing everything from my knee injury to my prospects for happiness in life. There was no writing I could do, no reading, no cooking or cleaning, nothing that would pull me out of my McGrims. So I gave up and went back to bed. I took three issues of Yoga Journal with me, and instead of sleeping, I tortured the cat with affection and leafed through the magazines.
Well.
It took only half an issue for me to remember what was wrong with me: everything. If you believed everything you saw and read in Yoga Journal, you’d think every yogi in the world was rich, skinny, and on extremely high doses of antidepressants. How else do these people actually do the things they advise their readers to do? Por ejemplo:
Wake Up at Dawn.
That made me laugh. Who does that?
But then I remembered, Indra and Lou did. Real yogis do. I did, once, in Bali, when I was a real yogi.
So, trying not to think about the fact that I wake up closer to the post-meridian than anyone should ever publicly confess, I continued to read about how I should wake up at dawn. This is the time when there’s the most energy in the air. Dawn is a spiritual time, the threshold between night and day. I’d often thought as much when I was going to bed at dawn. I’d often looked out the window and thought, Hey. Dawn is nice. But bed is nicer.
While you’re up with the sunrise, the Journal suggested, you ought to eat some
agni-igniting foods like delicious coconut-oat-ghee-farina hot cereal. Agni is your digestive fire. In other words, it’s your metabolism. But agni sounds so much more spiritual than metabolism, right?
It occurred to me that yoga employs Sanskrit for the same purposes that Catholicism used to employ Latin—as a sort of lingua franca for a worldwide religion, but also to imbue certain concepts with mystery, to make them forbidden to those who lack the intellectual complexity to grapple with their profundity.
I didn’t think of my metabolism as being so profound a concept that it needed the mystery of Sanskrit, but if mind and body were one, perhaps I was wrong. I turned the page, thinking that so long as yogis didn’t start referring to their poop as dookra or something, I could stick with my yoga practice. I could just imagine how the yogis at my studio would fling the word dookra through the halls like so much monkey shit. “I am working on solidifying my dookra, bringing form to my dookric shape.” “I’ll be back, it’s time for me to experience my dookra.” “My dookra has golden chunks of corn in it.”
The thought made me laugh, but I knew that in the right company, I might refer to my poop as dookra. I pictured myself at twenty-five in Bali, sporting a sarong, mala beads twisted around my wrist, trying on this new yoga language as if it were German or French, and felt a pang of longing so profound it brought tears to my eyes. What was so wrong with that, really? Would it have been wrong if I’d used the word dookra in Bali? No! I was living in a spiritual culture! Our purpose was to connect every aspect of our lives to the soul, linking matter with energy, the visible with the invisible. If everything is God—if I wanted to believe that—then why not my metabolism? Why not my dookra?
Oh, I’ll be honest: I wanted a balanced agni. I did, I really did. But it wasn’t just the perfect yogi’s balanced agni that I wanted. The agni was just the beginning. I wanted the whole picture.
I wanted my practice back. I wanted to show that stoner-eyed yoga teacher what I could really do. “I’m a great fucking yogi,” I said. Out loud. To the cat. Which is funny, really—I never was a great fucking yogi. But I remembered what it was like to feel like one.
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