Mysore Update: The Lady with the Stick

I have moved out of Pushpa’s house, and into a slightly more modern apartment. The apartment is upstairs to the home of a middle to upper class family. I have a little more space than I did at Pushpa’s, though the laundry situation is approximately the same. So far, I have done laundry on the rooftop two times. I have borrowed some official laundry soap from my vegan British roommate. It is liquid and organic. Sometimes I am skeptical of the efficacy of pure organic things and so I continue to use my bar Ivory soap in the hopes that it will improve the overall odour outcome. So far, some of my clothing smells quite nice, while the mildew lingers on in a couple of items. I am doing my best to make friends before the mildew becomes overpowering.

Laundry at my new place

It took me some time to figure out the closest and safest way to get to the shala.  I scored a 4:30 start time for led class, which we have until Tuesday. For my few readers who aren't Ashtanga geeks, 4:30 shala time, means 4:15 for the rest of the world. My alarm goes off around 3 a.m. Once in Halifax, I woke up at 3 a.m. in order to practice before subbing for a yoga teacher. It was one of the greatest accomplishments of my life, and I spoke of little else for several weeks afterwards. Perhaps my whole life has been preparation for 3 a.m.

The obligatory selfie with registration card

Our first led class came the morning after an enormous thunderstorm. The stray dogs close to my apartment were pretty riled up and barked quite emphatically as I walked by.  The ten or fifteen minute route seemed excruciatingly long, and I felt nervous. Three dogs ran towards me as I walked passed a field, where people milk cows every morning. For quite a few blocks, they circled me, and one of them took my flowy pink hippie skirt and purple shawl into his mouth. He didn’t seem malicious at all and reminded me of when my Big Black Dog used to run after me in the house. Still, I remember that once the Big Black Dog accidentally bit me in the butt while he was fooling around. Not knowing what these dogs have been through, the last thing I wanted was a dog bite. Finally, as I got closer to the shala, another yoga student appeared out of his apartment and the dogs found him to be more exciting than my pink skirt.

Although I arrived at the shala well before four a.m. already there was big crowd in front of the gate. A major part of the practice here is trying not to get pissed off at the bizarre line up dynamic. So far I haven’t seen anyone be horribly obnoxious, but it is definitely a rush to get in. Being Canadian, I refuse to push and try to be polite about letting people go ahead of me. For the first couple of days, by the time I got in, the room was pretty full. Lucky for me though, for three mornings I squeezed into an excellent spot next to the door. There, it is slightly less hot which is good for Canadians. Also, I got to practice behind Miami Life Centre’s Daylene Christenson. She is one of the cool kids, and she has a beautiful and majestic practice. Of course my drishti was perfect and I didn’t watch her at all, but I think just having her in front of me inspired my latissimus dorsi, among other things.

 

Some people blog extensively about their practice and all of their body parts. Others feel this is somehow taboo. I will just say that I have recently diagnosed myself with an eighty year old hip. I arrived in Mysore with much trepidation, wondering if maybe I should only be doing Surya Namaskar A. The first day, some Sharath slash Mysore magic kicked in and my pain seemed minimal and manageable.  That said, by the end of the week, the hideous and sketchy clicking returned during practice and especially during the day. This is not just bubbles of synovial fluid popping. Something is off. Rubbing oil on my joints is soothing, but not a cure. And so, the ego will have to bleed to death as I bid farewell to a buffet of postures. Honestly though, with the 3 a.m. wake up, and the dogs and the crowd, postures have been the very least of my worries.

I came home from my first practice distraught and overcome by the fear that the next morning, the dogs would bite me and I’d get rabies. I Facetimed Robbie in tears.

“Yah, if they’re right on your skirt, that’s a bit sketchy,” he said.

My landlady could hear me crying and came upstairs to see what was wrong.

“Oh, I will give you a stick,” she said when she heard. “And if they keep bothering you, I’ll have them poisoned.” To many of the people here, the stray dogs are like rats. It’s sad. They don’t give me any problems during the day. At night they are just protecting their territory. They aren’t trained or loved. What can you expect?

All day I obsessively asked everyone I ran into what I should do. I posted on the Facebook page about a walking buddy, but no dice. I can understand people have enough to deal with at 3:30 in the morning. Many people suggested I get a scooter; however, I feel this an even greater hazard as I am a terrible driver. Robbie thought maybe a rickshaw driver could pick me up, but it would be hard to find someone reliable and it could also be expensive. Anyways, after hours of consulting and redrawing maps, I finally figured out a route that cut down my walking time, almost by half. And it didn’t pass any fields or garbage. I decided I would carry the stick and try the new route the next day.

So far I haven’t had any problems. The dogs I pass on my new route are usually sleeping. The ones I do see veer off whenever they see the stick. Sadly, they are used to being hit and they’re afraid.

On Friday morning before practice, Sharath announced that we should be careful about going into the city this weekend. Because of the festival, it is a crazy weekend in Mysore and foreigners tend to “get snatched.” Sharath also said we should walk in groups because there have been some incidents of people being attacked in the past.

“And I saw a lady with a stick,” Sharath said, looking at me. So now I have a claim to fame. The lady with the stick. After practice, some vegan dude warned me of the angry vegans who would judge me for hitting dogs.

“Pretend it’s for the men in the dark corners,” he insisted. Well, let’s hope I don’t end up having to hit anyone.

Today, Sunday, is our rest day, changed from Satuday, as all the yoga blogs have so thoroughly discussed. I slept in until 7:30. Sleeping here has been a bit rough. For a few days, I attempted to follow the trend of not eating dinner or at least eating light in the evenings. Perhaps it was worth a try, but ultimately this has simply resulted in angsty, hungry insomnia. Food theories are  an inevitable part of the yoga world. I tire of it rapidly, and it remains a constant battle to ignore what’s not helpful and honour my needs. Oh well, I will get the hang of it. (More on this and becoming a peanut butter sandwich person in the upcoming vipassana diaries. These have been put on hold as I struggle with a post that may offend three and a half people, should they choose to read it…)

Speaking of food, I think it is around the time to go off in search of lunch. If you have made it this far, thank you so much for reading.  Drop me a line if you’re in Mysore, and you don’t find me too dorky to hang out with. I would love to meet you.

Much love, The “Exuberant Bodhisattva.”

The End.

 

The Cow wanted in.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, my $2 self-help book

More on Going to India:

Our lives will never be the same

Our lives will never be the same, part two
Presents from my father 

Vipassana Diaries

Last Practice Before Vipassana

Bus 

Day Zero

Food Belly

Exalted

This morning I woke up at 3:30 A.M.

To menstrual cramps and menstrual blood and cravings for toast and peanut butter.

James Altucher loves waking up before 4 A.M.  So today, I get to be a little bit like James Altucher, but with menstrual cramps.  I don't know if James Altucher likes toast.  

At 3 A.M., I was dreaming.  In my dream, I was sending a free copy of  my exceedingly helpful self-help book to Tim Miller.

In real life, I don't have Tim Miller's email address.



Tim Miller. In my dream, he desperately wanted a copy of my self-help book, I Let Go.
In real life, he probably doesn't need it.



In real life, there is water in my ear.  Especially the left one.

It could also be curly-haired conditioner.

Or some cerebral spinal fluid.  Must be time for some brand name Q-tips, purchased with the Boatman during our Drugstore Date.

These brandname Q-tips come in a package of 54, which 108 divided by 2, which is a very auspicious box to come from when you are a brand-name Q-tip.

The Brandname Q-tips really hit home with folks from Perth Ontario.   Perth, Ontario is the prettiest town in Ontario.  What's more, in 2008, we had four Olympians.  3 of them were born in 1984.  Since I was a gifted child, I got to be in their classes, even though I was born in 1985.  Oh look!  Here's Mike Brown:

Mike Brown. What I think in my head when I look at this photo:
What a babe.

A real champ.  I used to swim in the lane beside him.  Then I was his lifeguard.   Once I helped him with his English Essay.  Now Mike Brown has huge pipes.  Mike Brown is preparing for the Olympic Trials at the end of the month. Wish him luck.  Good luck, Mike Brown.

Mike Brown and all the other people from Perth Ontario know that you shouldn't stick Q-tips up your ears, not even brand name q-tips.  I used to know this but some conditioner or cerebral spinal fluid got stuck in my ears, especially the left one, and it has been so long since I lived in Perth, Ontario that I forgot.  So this morning I stuck some brand name q-tips up my ears.  Especially in the left one.  What I found there:  It wasn't conditioner.  I do not think that I will do that again.  Not with the brandname Q-tips.

There are 20 more days left of Lent.  Lent is 46 days this year.  Last year at this time, I started a post entitled "Lent."  It seems I didn't have that much to say about it.

Yesterday the doorbell rang and the Big Black Dog barked so loudly that the man with the pamphlet couldn't come in.  He slipped his pamphlet into my hand through the crack in the door.  On the pamphlet Jesus was standing on a cloud.  He had white hair and a crown.



Jesus says, "Where is my crown?"



The pamphlet said:  "Jesus is an exalted King.  But what does that mean to you?"  I don't know what it means to me.  Neither does the Boatman.  We can go find out at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah's witness on Holy Thursday after the Boatman washes my feet.  I am not allowed to talk about my toenail fungus ever again.

26 days ago, more or less, the Boatman and I were sitting on the couch.

 "What do you want to give up for Lent?" I asked

"What's Lent?"  asked the Boatman.  

Last year for Lent, I tried to give up an hour of my time to meditation.  I wanted to be Zen, like the Buddha.  And exalted, like Jesus.  I made it eight days.

This year, the Boatman resolved to give up eating all meat except for seafood.  Since I already never eat anything with a mother or a face, I decided I would try to give up 20 minutes of my time to meditate.   I thought that it would help me become Zen and Exalted.  As the Boatman and I observed, I became increasingly neurotic as the days and the 20 minute chunks of exalted time passed.  I worried about the gunk in my ear.  And all sorts of other things.  And I had terrible dreams that weren't about Tim Miller.

While I was meditating, the Boatman ate a lot of fish and chips.

fish and chips and peas.

Sometimes with green peas, sometimes without.  Last weekend, the Boatman and I flew to Montreal.  On the airplane we decided that while in Montreal, I would not meditate and the Boatman would eat chicken.  We had a wonderful visit.  I did not worry about the gunk in my ears at all.  Which was a good thing because I'd forgotten my brandname Q-tips.

When we got back to Halifax, our housesitter had clogged our kitchen sink with Honey Nut Cheerios, and our bathtub with Johnny Walker puke.  I cleaned up the Cheerios and have not started to meditate again.  I Let Go, like in my self-help book.  The Boatman let go too.

You too can let go, for $2.99.

Jesus is an exalted king.  But what does that mean to you?

Jesus might say:  Chicken is not the end of the world.  But watch out for the pepperoni and the French Fries.  

Dix frites ont 110 calories.  (Ten French Fries have 110 calories)  This sentence was on my grade six French Grammar class.  I have never forgotten it, and have cringed at the thought of French Fries ever since.

ONT stands for Ontario and it is also French for have, if you are more than one person, or more than one French Fry.

I was always very good at conjugation.  Mike Brown was in my class.

Seventeen Magazine.  I read it in grade six, when I was ten.  Recall that I was a gifted child and thus the youngest person in grade six.  Seventeen Magazine had a column called Ask Anything.  The question I never forgot was:  Why do I always get the runs when I'm on the rag?  I can't remember the answer, but I never forgot the question.  There are so many reasons to ask it.  Especially at this time of month. 

Runs on the rag.  My friend Fern calls it "Peanut Butter and Jam."  Gross.  I hope I sleep better tonight.  Tomorrow I will be Zen and Exalted.  Today is brown and bloody and very high in calories.  But my team spirit and conjugation are impeccable.  My memory is also rather impressive.

James Altucher says that you must always bleed in the first line.  Today, I don't have to try at all.  I have been bleeding since 3:30 A.M.  I bled in my first line, I am bleeding in my last.  I will bleed all day.

The End.

Peanut Butter and Jam, Vice Versa

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

The Earth Will Shake Us Off Like Fleas
Holy Thursday
Spiritual Beard, Secular Vagina