The Yoga Teacher


Twice a week, just as the city is starting its day, I sit crossed legged on a raised wooden platform that is covered in shawls, flowers, and tapestries. I sit in baggy clothes that drape and flow from my sides while I read through books of postures and poses, meditations and mantras, instructions and anecdotes. I face a small group of students, maybe one, maybe ten, who put their faith in me while I direct their morning yoga class. They pay me to control their lives for an hour and fifteen minutes.

Power comes with imposed responsibility. The students expect that I will guide them to their inner peace and self-exploration. “Care free” is the product I am pushing and enlightenment is my pitch. And I can give it to you. Or at least this is what you tell me.

So I teach. By twisting you this way, and turning you that way. I am the metronome to your lungs. I alter its pace, its depth, and rhythm. I can make you stop breathing; holding your breath until you are blue in the face. I command your vocals. We chant in English and in some other foreign antiquated language that you aren’t quite sure of but definitely believe in its cosmic vibratory powers. I make you chant in group settings as if you were a child in a church choir. Your voice coyly crescendoes as self-consciousness gives way to confidence. I am also in charge of your body—putting yourself in postures only newborns could stumble their way into. I make you hold these godforsaken poses until you’re seconds from collapse. You hit the floor exhausted and take a few breaths. Then, we do it again.

I make you do all sorts of idiotic things—and you follow. You listen to me, the young man you just met who is half your age with tattoos and long hair, walking into an expensive soho yoga studio. You listen because I am different, and because I am so different I must know something you don’t. And because the instructions I give you are so alien, they must provide something you can’t. You’ve accomplished another class. The guru has given you light. But in the end it’s all bullshit.

In the end, you’ve done it all yourself.

In these 75 minutes, there is nothing you haven’t done, and there is nothing that I did. I only read from a book, shared a few stories, and played some ethereal mood-setting music. I did nothing more than sit on a stage and watch you wrestle with your own ideas of how much you needed to struggle before you could give yourself love. It was all you. You were the one holding the keys to the chains shackling you down. The guard masquerades as prisoner; a mere game of hide and seek.

But on some level you already know this. And you’ll come back. Because you like this game, and you’d like to figure out just how much longer you’ll need me to tell you what to do. And for the time being, I’ll sit here on this stage, watching you squirm and squiggle until the unmentionable happens and you realize that you are in control.



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