THE YOGA CHRONICLES: CONFESSIONS OF A RELUCTANT YOGI

“AMERICA’S PACT WITH THE DEVIL”

It has been said that the legendary bluesman Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his otherworldly guitar mastery. Johnson died at twenty-seven, the victim of an angry husband who poisoned his whiskey. One of the greatest guitarists of all time, he is buried in an unmarked grave, whereabouts unknown.

Dr. Johann Georg Faust’s preoccupation with the occult allowed him to summon the devil, with whom he bartered his immortal soul for twenty- four years of pleasure. After sixteen years, Faust reconsidered and tried to re-negotiate the deal. As every high schooler knows, it didn’t go well for old Johann, either.

It went only a little better for St. Theophilus, who in his desire to become an archdeacon sought out a wizard to connect him with Satan. In a contract signed in his own blood, Theophilus agreed to renounce both Christ and the Virgin Mary. Theo too rethought his whole deal and repented. After forty days of fasting, the Virgin Mary appeared to Theophilus, chastised him for his blasphemy and most assuredly busted him across the knuckles with a metric. After much begging and thirty more days of fasting, Mary granted him Absolution and promised to intercede with God on his behalf.

It took another three more days of negotiation with Satan and a full confession to a bishop before Theophilus was unburdened from his contract, whereupon he died.

In this most recent and rarest of all presidential elections, we as Americans made our own pact with the devil, bartering our immortal soul for a peek up the skirt of the Statute of Liberty to see if she’s wearing panties.

We have witnessed a political race like no other in the history of our country. It is the ultimate cautionary tale- an election to establish not who we are but -hopefully-  who we are not.

It is beyond my understanding how the American electorate can pretend to be all shocked and shaken that we could not find in all this great land- from north to south, east to west, from sea to shining damned sea- two more likeable candidates for the highest office in the country?

Having peeped through the open window of our neighbor’s bedroom for years, how can we now possibly claim to be appalled that our presidential election has devolved into a reality show?

Rather than conducting a grand national debate on the issues which could serve to better us all, we had a peep show, where we hungrily gorged ourselves in real time on an endless loop of dirty laundry.

And why not? We have greedily leered as others have sold their souls to the devil for their Faustian fifteen minutes of fame. Given our collective attention span, that fifteen minutes is now closer to three so you have to cash in while the window is still open.

We have blithely watched as mothers cash in on their children’s porno movies, turning Kim Kardashian West into a national monument.

We are amused to have the anchor of a major news channel and a former Speaker of the United States House of Representatives in an argument reminiscent of Vikki Gunvalson and Tamra Judge of the Real Housewives of Orange County.

All that was missing was the smiling and smug but utterly delightful Andy Cohen.

(It is hard – if not downright gross- to imagine Tip O’Neal or Sam Rayburn saying to Walter Cronkite, “You’re obsessed with sex.”)

It is certainly the first election in which a major candidate has bragged he has a large penis. Not exactly Webster’s Reply to Calhoun.

Friends are lost because of political Facebook postings.

We’ve viewed emails, both public and private, heard about Donald Trump’s hands, Hillary Clinton’s ankles, and otherwise witnessed a shit show the likes of which makes the Hamilton- Burr duel seem downright genteel.

There is nothing off-limits. Sex. Religion. Race. There is nothing too personal to share or reveal.

Our national obsession with the profane is neither new nor even uniquely American, but we do have a new wizard of the occult, the twenty-four hour news cycle, whom we summon to conjure up demons big and small.

 We have relinquished our ability to know that some things are inherently wrong for a glimpse up the teacher’s skirt.

We have surrendered our license to think.

          I have seen the devil and it is us.

          As for me, I’ve got my own damn demons to dispel. So ninety- one days ago I decided to reset, to get back to First Principles, to try and calm the turbulence in my own small mind and soothe the unrest in my own unholy soul.

          While I cannot change the acrimony I see, I can change me.

 For I am the devil I know.

Whether as my own personal protest or perhaps as penitence, I decided to do ninety yoga classes in ninety days.

          It has forced me to discipline not just my body but my mind, reminding me that to transcend requires not only transcendence but, in fact, a starting place, a benchmark from which to transcend.

It is this part of yoga that has always held a mystical allure for me, not because of the transcendence but because it stabilizes me, it gets me back to myself- even when I’m a real asshole.

          The first principle is you have to be there- you have to show up. I have to make the time to go to class very day and I have to actually show up -because history gets made by those who show up.

          The next principle is that I have to start at the beginning, not in the middle. I have spent a lifetime starting in the middle. Whether from birth order (I am the youngest of three brothers), a nasty competitive streak, or a preternatural cosmic impatience, I have always simply wanted to be farther down the road than I deserved to.

My life before yoga was a high-wire act without a net, more style than substance and more balls than brains. It requires daring- and profound arrogance- to teach college at twenty-two and run for the legislature at twenty-three, particularly considering the fact that I was an utter fraud in both.

But on my mat, I have to start at the beginning; indeed, I have to start with my shortcomings. Not only do I have to show up every day, I have to be prepared, never one of my strong suits.

I have to get there early- not only to stretch and warm my creaky old muscles and joints but to prepare and open my mind for the challenges ahead.

To start class, I root my feet on all fours corners, grounding myself into the earth with a genuine stability I have never known. I lift and open my chest, place my hands in my prayer at my heart, and raise my head to the heavens.

All things considered, not a bad place to start for a dinosaur ex-fraternity boy from East Texas.

Throughout class, I have to remember to stay within myself even as I try to push beyond my limitations and realize that the power of a particular pose always comes in overcoming my own weakness of mind, body or spirit, not in flinging myself into them.

I have spent a lifetime flinging myself into poses, allowing momentum to propel me forward even when I was not remotely ready. But that only cheated me, depriving of discipline, focus, and, alas, genuine satisfaction.

As a result, I often find myself actually angry during class, almost always in those poses which make me fearful or uncomfortable or for which I am unprepared. Balance poses which combine any forward folding or twisting seem to positively wring anxiety out of me.

A simple half-moon can send me so far into the throes of terror and frustration that I can almost feel myself falling deeply into the abyss. A revolved half –moon can send me into years of therapy.

On my mat, I have nowhere to hide because no one is looking but me, so the demons are where they always were.

But at the end of each class, there is rest. It is more than physical recovery. For about three minutes, I lay quiet and still on my mat. The physical exertion has loosened the death grip that my fears have on my thoughts, allowing them to roam untethered, free of intent, purpose, or meaning.

In these moments, it is not simply the absence of motion but the actual presence of peace. Oddly, it is here where the yoga begins. If I transcend in these moments, it is from my own demons.

As a profoundly imperfect man, God knows that it enough.

There is no dealing with my demons. There is no minimizing them. There is no distraction from them through sleight of hand.  So I must accept it and surrender. Or get pissed off.

I have spent a lifetime dancing without a net on the wire, trying to prove my own worthiness to others even when I did not believe in it myself. A poor man’s Don Quixote, I tilted at windmills and slashed away at my demons with my wooden sword.

I cannot eliminate my demons but I can control myself- my breath, my focus, my patience, and my discipline.

This is my mastery. It may not be transcendental or pretty, but it is mine.

And I didn’t have to sell my soul for it.

           

           © Thomas C. Barron 2017