Dear Yoga…Are you there?

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I hate yoga. I try to do it every day. I do it so that I don’t kill myself or my friend, or my mother, or the shitty downstairs neighbor. I very rarely find exquisite inner peace (I should say I have never found it). It has made me calmer, it helps me not to feel so fat. It gives my ego a boost because although I cannot do lotus, I’m very flexible in my back bends. I like to look around the room and see that I am in the top half of the class. I got a boyfriend by going to yoga, most of my friends do it. I have taken multiple certification programs to teach it, I know a fair amount of the foundations you can learn from North American teachers but mostly I dislike practicing. I’m okay with that, cause there are brief moments of peace, of climbing off the edge, of release. Once I ate a pot cookie and went to class and honestly I was totally fucking ripped happy to be there. That was fun.

But I have to fight, like my lifestyle and personality are not conducive to the Ommm I expect, so I have to work to be cool, to be equanimous, to be level, to be placid, to be happy.

Here are all the things I do that are not really yogic:

  1. I secret smoke at night.
  2. I steal sometimes (mostly from yoga studios).
  3. I push my boyfriend to see how far it takes to get him mad.
  4. I am highly critical of others.
  5. I judge myself for that.
  6. I want to run away from my dreams.
  7. I want to quit everything and get high.
  8. I have taken anti-depressants and would again if I got that low.
  9. I have a penchant for getting low.
  10. I feel fat most of the time.
  11. I want to matter, more than the average person.
  12. I don’t think I am good enough just being me.
  13. I think I deserve everything I desire (that might be yogic).
  14. I think I deserve it more than others (not yogic).

But I keep practicing. Everyday if I can. And it keeps me sane, alive sometimes. It is my  militant teacher and my deepest comfort. I need it and I know that.

 So now I will revert back to the trailer I grew up in, looking out the window, over the hot water tank at the chicken coop, as I unlock my diary, fling my hair over the pillow so I look like a maiden in a romance novel and pretend that my classmates are watching me from a camera in the roof.

 Dear Yoga… Are you there? It’s me Emelia.