Yoga Journal: A Husband’s Journey through Yoga Avici and Anarthaka (Sanskrit for ‘ceaseless pain’ and ‘bullshit’), Week Seven

I was hiking in Yosemite this past week and woke up early Thursday morning to find a guy wearing a ski mask holding a semiautomatic pistol to my head. That said, this is a yoga and food blog so let’s talk about eye pillows!

For the rookies out there, yoga eye pillows are these cloth bars that are roughly the size and shape of a large human turd. They’re heavier than you’d initially think, and I assume their purpose is to assist the user in gaining a fuller, more relaxed state during the Savasana phase of class. Based on my experience, the quality of eye pillows are in direct proportion to the monthly dues you pay for a studio membership. This pillow scale can range from nonexistent on the low end, 150 thread-count sacks filled with Cornnuts at the median clubs, to Lama-blessed rose beads encapsulated in fine Italian silk at the studios where they think Lululemon is for poor people. These are the same studios where, for the first time since high school, I’ve actually considered shoplifting. I don’t really need any of the stuff they’re selling, but who wouldn’t want a three foot high bronze Buddha sitting in the corner of their living room, or an entire rack of “yoga tops” that you could easily sell on eBay for $100 each?

And, you have to admit, yoga studio security is pretty lax.

I’ve tried using eye pillows a couple of times and just don’t get the point; it feels like there’s something heavy weighing down my eyeballs. There are a couple of things wrong here: First, the point of a yoga eye pillow is to make it feel like there’s something heavy weighing down your eyeballs. Second, I’m the least germophobic person I know – I use Emily’s toothbrush when she’s not around, I reuse whatever dishes or utensils that are left in the sink, I’ll even drink out of a garden hose when given the opportunity – but I don’t like the thought of my eyeballs touching the exact spot that’s previously touched other sets of eyeballs. Want me to sit on a ratty, sweat-stained Mexican blanket for ninety minutes? Sign me up! Want me to spend fifteen minutes with my eyes touching a stuffed sock with a history of questionable physical contact? Not so much.

I’m still looking for that yoga studio that offers you a straw and a line of Xanax five minutes prior to Savasana.

Probably the oddest change in my life now that I’m a yoga practitioner (and occasional yoga journaler) is that I have this strange, unwavering desire to have a professional photograph taken of me doing a yoga pose. I know I’m not alone in this yearning; every yoga instructor I’ve taken a class from has spent hundreds of dollars and thousands of mind hours thinking about and preparing for that one perfect shot. These photos fall into three strict categories: 1.) Simple poses in exotic locations, 2.) Exotic poses in simple locations, and 3.) Exotic poses in exotic locations. I have yet to see a single picture of a simple pose in a simple location – don’t even try to find one, they don’t exist. I don’t know when it happened, exactly, but now I, too, want a professional yoga photo. It ain’t gonna happen but I do think about it…a lot.

I won’t do it because 1.) I’m a guy, 2.) I’m from Arkansas and will get the physical and verbal shit kicked out of me the second the picture makes its way to Facebook, and 3.) I actually did a trial run with a ten second timer on my Nikon last week and my form is horrific. (!)

I really did do a multi-day hike in Yosemite; it was fifty-something miles and I was carrying a fifty pound pack. It’s not an understatement to say that it almost killed me. One interesting yoga moment happened on the trip: Around day three, I was feeling pretty banged up so I decided to rip out a few sun salutations just to do a pseudo-body scan and see what was going on down there.

Hands over head – No problem
Forward Fold – Tight but feels good
Flat back – Piece of cake
Plank/Face plant – Easy
Cobra – Nice and stretchy
Down Dog/Butt to the sky – Simple
Down Dog/Push Back on heels – Armageddon. I’m still not totally sure what happened internally but the sound that came out externally can best be described as a cross between a child’s scream and a pig throwing up. I’m absolutely certain the tourists are still talking about the sound that echoed down Yosemite canyon the evening of October 30.

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Several entries ago, I incorrectly stated that each yoga class ends with a simple triple OM-out followed by a deep bow and soothing “Namaste.” This neophyte observation was one hundred percent inaccurate.

Every class ends with this:
“AND REMEMBER! I’M GIVING A {number} DAY WORKSHOP ON {date} IN {exotic location}! THE COST IS {outrageous number}, THERE’S ONLY {very small number} OF SEATS LEFT AND WE’LL BE FOCUSING ON {Say one: Reclaiming, Purifying, Restoring, Nurturing} THE {Say one: Mind, Body, Spirit, Soul, Child Within}! YOU CAN GET A FLYER OUT FRONT OR COME SEE ME IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS!!!!!!

Chris
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Chris Knight, a gainfully unemployed travel writer, sometime photographer, and full-time husband hails from Arkansas but calls San Francisco home. In His spare time, he enjoys long-distance hiking, touring the back alleys of his adopted city, cooking Indian street food and antagonizing his dog, John Cash.