City Scriptures

I would be lying if I said the transition from beach to city has been easy. I’ve been home for a week and so far I’ve experienced a rollercoaster of emotions almost every hour. A typical monologue of mind stuff goes like this:

“YAY! I’m so happy I’m home. I get to see my friends and my family! I missed you guys! I love you so much! And WOW! There are so many good yoga studios here and so many inspiring teachers to learn from…. “

“AGH! Why is everybody pushing me? I’m walking fast enough. I’m sweating for gods’ sake! What’s the damn rush, people?? I hate this… “

Inhale. Exhale.

“Ok, but seriously I’m so grateful to be here. What a great test of my ability to be present. Being here makes me stronger. I’m a spiritual gangster!! And there’s so much good food. Good music. Good art….”

“Oh my god! There’s the subway. RUN! The train’s delayed. I’m going to be late for work. RUN! Why are all these tourists walking so damn slow? RUN!!! I hate it here… Screw the music. Screw the art. I never have time to go see any of it anyway… my schedule is already full for the next three weeks. I’m overwhelmed. I can’t breathe…”

Inhale. Exhale.

Continue this chatter ad infinitum… wash, rinse, repeat… You get the idea.

So what is a culture-shocked yogini to do? Back her bags and go back to the beach? Succumb to the mind stuff and search for an escape in old habits (staying out too late, stretching herself too thin, drinking more martinis than tea)? Or better yet, figure out a way to quit her job and stay within the cozy confines of 24/7 yoga classes in the myriad studios throughout the city? Tempting. But, no.

 Because I am a spiritual gangster. Being here, feeling the vrittis pile up in my mind like  a midtown traffic jam on a Friday at six, I feel increasingly determined to take my yoga with me everywhere I go.

I’ve been meditating on the J train as it rattles over the graffiti-riddled low-income housing of deep Queens and Brooklyn. I’ve been breathing deeply on my walk through the rambling hoards of window shoppers that stop without warning to ogle overpriced Prada while I’m trying to get to work. I’ve been trying to plan less and be present more.

And I fail. And I lose focus. And I realize it. And I try again.

The yoga sutras, the bhagavad gita, all of the poems of Rumi and Hafiz—they are all powerful tools for learning about yoga. But the scriptures of New York City make you live it.

Case in point:

Saturday, I spent the morning sweating it out in an amazing yoga class, only to realize, I still felt funky and somewhat blue. Despite being on my mat, I couldn’t get my mind away from all of the things I was thinking I wanted to accomplish in the weeks ahead. I tried the usual tricks to no avail. I felt stressed, depressed even.  Where was the panic button, I wondered? I wanted off the ride.

I went to work, put on a smile and repeated the sacred mantra, “fake it ‘til you make it.” As I polished glasses and set up my station, my mind was still running a thousand miles a minute, trying to schedule and squeeze me into every possible activity and goal over the next stretch of time. Unable to be in the moment, I was even scribbling my schedule for the next two weeks on cocktail napkins stolen from the bar. And then, the dinner rush came.

Two hours into the nonstop movement and on-the-spot problem solving that serving our guests, requires, I realized that I had become completely engrossed in what I was doing, right there, right then. I had stopped planning for the unknown. And despite my quickening pulse, the crowd and the chaos all around me, I didn’t feel stressed at all. Quite the contrary, I felt in my element, fully present, and actually invigorated. If I was still on a rollercoaster, I wanted to let go of the safety bars, throw my hands up and scream, “WOO HOO!”

 That night, my gurus weren’t wearing robes or reciting sacred chants, they were wearing skinny jeans and speaking with bad Jersey accents. Although I couldn’t find my yoga while doing asanas that morning, my yoga found me while I was in the weeds, at the height a Saturday night rush in a busy restaurant in the West Village.

Lesson learned. Om mane Prada om…..