There's unrest brewing in the world of yoga. If you watched ABC's Nightline last week or read the story in Vanity Fair last month, Bikram Choudhury, the eponymous Guru that helped transform the bodies of housewives and college grads with liberal arts degrees, is under pressure.
How does perception of another individual become so skewed that we are shocked when we learn of their mortal shortfalls? And why does seeing the dark side of a teacher hurt so much more than if the corner grocer or local barista does the same thing?
The league's active rushing leader at age 29, Jackson just inked a three-year contract with Atlanta. With the average NFL
If we want to keep the American yoga chariot we're riding from crashing and burning in its own funeral pyre, we must respect the spiritual wisdom from which it was born. Perhaps it's time to put our desires aside and allow Arjuna, with the help of Krishna, take back the reins.
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I tried Bikram yoga. Twenty-six poses in 90 minutes in a room heated to 104 degrees. My first three sessions were horrible, okay and great, in that order. After my triumphant third session -- I got through every pose, no light-headedness or true misery -- I thought, "Hot yoga is my bitch."
My visibly-trembling muscles shake globs of sweat off my patchy, red skin while my hair manages to both frizz up and clamp on my skin all at once. The picture of Zen, I am not.
Though we in the competition-squeamish yoga community have been repeatedly assured that yoga competitions are historically common in India, your first time can be shocking. That was my experience at least, at the Hudson Theater in Midtown Manhattan, watching the 2012 United States Yoga Asana Championship, New York Regional edition.