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Tuesday, July 19, 2011, 11:53 AM
My mom, an 80-year old true Texas firecracker, recently received an unexpected gift in the mail. Upon opening the mysterious envelope, she was caught by surprise at the candid photo of herself. A head shot from behind her steering wheel. As she ran a red light. Courtesy of the City of Santa Clarita.
This city-sponsored photo shoot would cost her somewhere in the vicinity of $500. Mom is not one to accept difficulties with equanimity. “They won’t get a red cent out of me. I haven’t had a ticket in 25 years and I’m sure as hell not going to pay this one,” she declared.
I smiled. Last year I, too, received an unsolicited headshot from the City of Sclarita. I posed for mine while making a tardy left turn at the same ginormous intersection. I knew the score.
“Mom, you have choices. If you can’t pay the fine, you can do community service.” This whole community service thing was a welcome relief when I was the traffic offender. I chose to repay my debt to society at the Santa Clarita Senior Center. As yoga teacher and masseuse, I figured I had much to offer the old folks. It was a great fit. Win/win.
The City didn’t see it quite the same way. No, I was told by Carlos the merciless Senior Center Lunch Room Supervisor, you won’t be doing yoga or massage. You’ll clean trays, sweep floors, wipe down tables. Here’s your plastic apron and gloves. Don’t forget the hairnet. And if you’re good you may get promoted to the serving line. (I eventually became the mac and cheese lady. I worked it, sister.)
My mom wound up at the Senior Center, too. A stylish woman, she grudgingly sported the disposable apron and gloves. She almost came to blows with Carlos the Merciless while hand-rolling hundreds of plastic sporks in paper napkins. When her hours were served, she threw in her hairnet and swore to never return. So much for compassionate community service.
Flash forward several months. I realize Mom is taking an offbeat route as we snake through town. When I question her, she tartly responds, “I don’t use that intersection at McBean and Valencia anymore. Avoid it like the plague. Damn intersection ruined my life.”
I resisted the temptation to snark back a thousand smarty-pants responses. My mom’s misguided thinking seemed ridiculous to me until I did some self-inquiry. Wait a minute. In my own misguided thinking, to protect myself from suffering, what do I regularly avoid?
How about my yoga practice? In the beginning, I practiced poses I liked and dodged poses I didn’t like. Over time, I realized how the challenge of Half-Moon pose could improve my stamina in Headstand. And when I approach Half-Moon with an open, spacious mind instead of fear and loathing, I can begin to work with the pose. Without adding all my mental nonsense. It’s not the pose. It’s me.
I see avoidance as a dual sided coin: skillful and unskillful. Skillful avoidance is healthy and wise. We need to discern real danger and elude it. Non-skillful avoidance is shunning something because I mistake it as the source of my suffering. If I avoid the intersection, I won’t get a ticket. If I avoid Half Moon Pose, I won’t fall. If I avoid love, I won’t get hurt. The Yoga Sutras teach avoidance of pain as a crucial obstacle toward peace of mind. How will I learn to handle Life’s inevitable discomfort if I avoid it at every turn? And how small am I willing for my world to become so that I can avoid pain?
When I approach my perceived obstacles with impartial intelligence, I make space for growth. When I shine my awareness on the darkness of my misperception, I have an opportunity for evolution. The cruel intersection is no longer responsible for the route I take. The dreaded pose becomes a vital part of my practice. My mind and heart expand.
Meanwhile, Mom is still shunning the McBean/Valencia crossroads while Carlos the Merciless dreams of her return in a spork-filled fantasy. Hairnets flying. Avoiding nothing. Yeeoowww!
Sunday, July 17, 2011, 5:04 PM
Meditation has countless definitions and interpretations. A few I like are: the uninterrupted flow of concentration; an internal state of relaxed awareness; the turning or revolving of a subject in the mind; a quiet, alert, powerfully concentrated state wherein new knowledge and insights are awakened from within as awareness focuses one-pointedly on an object or specific line of thought. And my personal fav: a state of pure present moment awareness. Not dwelling in the past or dreaming of the future. Just now. This moment. And this one. And this one. And, yeah, this one, too.
Meditation is considered a practice that requires time to be quiet and reflective. Time to sit silently on my cushion and gaze at a candle flame or repeat a mantra as I finger my mala beads or observe my breath. I lovingly prepare my altar with candles, incense, offerings. I read sacred texts. It’s my ritual to set the scene just right. And if my karma ship comes in, perhaps I’ll receive a new insight or understanding or even a defrag of my mental muck. Happy day! Wonder of wonders! But mostly it’s the routine of lighting the candle, burning the incense, setting the offerings and reading and fingering.
So I’m at a meditation workshop and the teacher introduces the idea of short bursts, many times. Short bursts, many times? It’s his theory that anytime we are stopped by something that takes our breath away or stuns us into awe or jerks us out of our sleepy mind and into present moment awareness, that’s meditation too. Anytime we are in a state where our attention becomes consumed by an object, that’s it. That’s it? Really? Seems a little too simple. Don’t I need to set the holy scene? Burn something? Or at least sit in crossed legs and chant Sanskrit for a minimum of 30 minutes??
While rushing out the front door one day, I’m suddenly overtaken by the incredible beauty of a flock of turkey vultures flying overhead. The vast group alights in my neighbor’s tree. There are about 50 of them delicately balanced on the tips of the branches and I am spellbound. Filled with deep awe and appreciation. I’m not in the future, I’m not in the past, I’m completely present in my concentration on the birds. For several minutes, I am fully awake and aware. Aha! That’s what the teacher is talking about. Short bursts, many times.
I’m taking the garbage out at dusk, arms fully loaded, and suddenly there’s the sunset. The tone of the sky is undeniably sacred. It practically demands my attention. And there I am, mid-yard with arms full of trash, locked eyes with the sky. I’m transformed for a few moments as I become one with the nature of the sunset. Or sunrise for that matter. Short bursts, many times.
I am struggling to load my car with stuff for an event. The stuff is heavy and awkward and my Internal Complainer is pretty busy. As I’m struggling out to the car, I happen to notice an ant on my driveway. She is carrying a stick that is about 10 times her size and it is heavy and awkward and she is struggling, too. I’m instantly snapped out of my monkey mind by this beautiful, determined creature. For a few moments, I am one with my struggling sister ant. Short bursts, many times.
I find these short flashes, these aha! moments, these spiritual quickies, if you will, infinitely astonishing. I don’t have to burn anything or read anything or, for that matter, finger anything. I only need broaden my consciousness to actually see what’s in front of me. Turkey vultures! Sunrise/set! Tiny brave and brilliant creatures! All tools for meditation.
Of course, I have not abandoned my existing practice. I continue to sit and gaze and finger, but I’m also available for that short burst, any time.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011, 6:48 PM
Becoming a Disaster Stress Relief Dog is no easy feat. The testing is rigorous and the dog must exhibit a distinctive personality. As I perused the list of required
canine behaviors, I wondered to myself in amusement, could I pass the therapy dog test? Could you? Consider these requirements for Therapy Dog Certification (aka WALKING the BODHISATTVA’S PATH):
Accepting a Friendly Stranger — dog will allow friendly stranger to approach and speak to handler in everyday situation; the dog must show no sign of resentment or shyness (aka EQUANIMITY) I usually have no problem with my handler speaking to others. However, do I greet friendly strangers with equal enthusiasm? With no sign of resentment or shyness?
Sitting Politely for Petting — dog will allow friendly stranger to touch it (aka ACCEPTANCE) Can I listen graciously while others share their heartache with me? Without having to add my own two cents? Accept whatever is expressed, without
judgment, while returning only love?
Walking in Crowd — dog is polite in pedestrian traffic and under control in public places; dog can show interest in strangers without being over exuberant, shy
or resentful (aka INNER PEACE) I’m polite and am usually able to remain in control in public places. However, over exuberance could be an issue.
Sit down/Stay in place — to show dog is trained; handler moves away but dog stays in place (aka HUMILITY/CONTENTMENT) Can I rest in the deep knowing that everything’s okay? Can I practice non-attachment so I don’t become unbalanced when my best friend leaves my side?
Leave-It — handler walks dog within three feet of food; upon command, dog must ignore food (aka PRATYAHARA; Withdrawal of the Senses; Fourth
Limb of Yoga) I seriously doubt my capacity to maintain focus while being walked on a loose leash past a big steaming plate of Petra’s garlic fries. The suffering children be damned. It’s Petra’s garlic fries.
Supervised Separation — evaluator takes dog while handler leaves for approximately three minutes; dog should not show anything stronger than mild agitation
or nervousness (aka TRUST) Separation anxiety anyone? I remember the first
few times leaving my toddler son with a sitter for approximately three minutes. He showed something substantially stronger than mild agitation or nervousness.
I think snot actually shot out of his tear ducts.
Say Hello — willingness of dog to visit a person (aka BODHICHITTA)
What is my degree of willingness to take on the pain of another? Can I cultivate pure loving-kindness? Do I offer my supreme good heart without holding back?
I scored significantly higher on the Which Kitchen Utensil Are You? test than the Canine Readiness Test. Could I someday earn the right to wear the Groovy
Bandana of Maximum Coolness that identifies the certified Disaster Stress Relief Dog? Maybe. And in the meantime, I have many gurus to rely upon. All of them
magnificent yoga dogs. All of them natural teachers, great heroes and sublime healers. They’ve learned to pay no attention to the garlic fries. Can I?
Sunday, July 10, 2011, 5:50 PM
I don’t remember where I first heard this particular bit of wisdom, but it’s become a real favorite. I’ve tried to live by its high standard and I can’t say I’ve always succeeded. I’ve passed it on to many friends and students and now I want to share with you this great universal precept. You can file it right along with other pithy insights like Whoever is happy will make others happy, too or The best things in life are free or Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Today, I offer for your consideration: Never miss a good opportunity to shut up.
I cannot overemphasize the benefit of this practice. Learning to shut up has been a tremendous vehicle for self-study. In observing my mental activity during any given day, I make these startling discoveries:
Opportunity #1: I have the strong urge to butt in while someone else is talking.
Why is it that when someone else is relaying their story to me, I get the overwhelming desire to interrupt them with my opinion or comment? Sometimes I don’t even hear what they’re saying, I only know that my commentary is of cosmic worth and if only they’d just let me get a word in edgewise they could experience the depths of my wisdom. Or sometimes I believe that I can express their own idea so much more skillfully than they can. I’m so busy formulating what I’m going to say that I don’t really hear what my companion is saying.
Opportunity #2: I have the strong urge to top a friend’s story.
As you’re telling me about your adventure, your thrill or your proud achievement, I’m scanning my own data banks for similar experiences. Only better. Your son won the What I Did on My Summer Vacation essay contest at school? That’s cute. Did I ever mention my daughter was named Most Perfect/Popular/Beautiful by her school and the entire school district?
Opportunity #3: When someone is suffering.
When someone is sharing their troubles, I am tempted to fix it. Tell them it’s all going to be okay, which is hogwash because if I’ve learned anything in my time on this planet, I know that it’s not always going to be okay. Hurt happens. And then I may throw in the topper (see #2 above): Your house is in foreclosure? Gee, that’s tough. Did you know that once my house burned to the ground destroying all our worldly possessions?
Opportunity #4: When I find myself finishing someone else’s sentences.
OMG, this is really, really bad, amazingly rude and irritating. My mom always used to finish my dad’s sentences and it would completely unnerve him. Not surprisingly, I am equally horrified to find myself doing the same thing.
Extra Credit: When I’m relentlessly haranguing myself.
After some time of training in shutting up with others, and enjoying the remarkable benefits of the practice, it dawned on me that I could apply the same technique to my own inner dialogue. As I was very busy condemning myself over some misdeed one day, I thought, hey! Never miss a good opportunity to shut up especially to myself. How about quieting that snarky critic living in my head? If I can learn to restrain my ego-talk as someone is telling me how sweet her boyfriend is (when I know mine is infinitely sweeter!) then surely I can make the mindful shift to silence my own screeching inner harpy.
As a student of yoga, I keep in mind that yoga teaches non-violence, including cutting into someone’s story or slamming myself for some perceived mistake. Non-hoarding, even of the drive and scope of a conversation. Non-stealing, even of another person’s freedom to finish a sentence.
So I practice the sacred art of shutting up. I remind myself to dial down my own need to speak and instead, deeply listen to the other person. Quiet myself and pay attention to others. It’s a beautiful and humbling practice. And the opportunities, seriously, are endless.
Now get out there and shut the hell up.
Saturday, July 9, 2011, 12:38 PM
My flamboyantly beautiful Texan millionaire friend Jackie and I met many years ago when I became her private yoga instructor (aka the Greatest Gig in the World). Our friendship was born from hours of asana and philosophy discourse. Jackie is a bona fide Texan with big red hair, a big open heart and a big abundant body. She is fiercely passionate and puts her considerable money where her mouth is. She has rocked my world on many levels. (Did I mention her generosity?) She is also seriously overweight.
While visiting California recently, Jackie treated me to a dreamy lunch at the Inn of the Seventh Ray, a beyond groovy award-winning vegetarian outdoor restaurant nestled into the stunning Topanga Canyon landscape. Referred to as a woodland bistro, the Inn is a chic, intelligent, natural foodie paradise. For our date, Jackie, as always, was a paradigm of good grooming: fine clothing, not a hair out of place, jewels sparkling. I, as always, was an enchanting example of comfort as fashion. The scandalously charming maître d' paraded us through a maze of terraced tables populated by uber-healthy, ridiculously beautiful people. We crossed over an arched storybook bridge to our creek side table. When we sat, Jackie looked into my eyes with a deep melancholy. “I always feel that when I’m in California, people are looking at me, like, how could she let herself go like that?” No amount of riches could protect my dear friend from feeling like the fat kid at the party.
We locked eyes. I could feel her breaking heart.
I smiled in response. “I know what you mean. When I’m in Texas, I feel the same way. Folks look at me like, how could she let herself go like that?” I don’t wear make-up or dress fashionably. My hair is plain and uncolored. (Worse than uncolored, it’s grey.) I’ve been known to gleefully sport a lotus chakra t-shirt paired with a flowing skirt of recycled saris. Texas women are typically chic and stylish. Their feet roll up into little balls like the Wicked Witch of the West at the slightest whisper of Birkenstock. I own three pair.
So there we sat in our hipster woodland restaurant: the oversized red-headed refugee from Neiman Marcus and the bare-faced braless weirdo from Woodstock. Locked eyes, open hearts, shared suffering. It was a powerful moment of insight as two very different beings connected through a common wound. We sighed in recognition of each other’s foibles.
I reflected on the teaching, just like me. The just like me teaching reminds us that we are all the same. We all want happiness. We all long for love and peace, contentment and acceptance. We may have different ideas of what that looks like and how to get there, but the underlying aspiration is the same. I am also confident that just like me, others have felt the sting of judgment, separation, and loneliness. We’ve all had the rug pulled out from under us a time or two. Or twenty.
Acknowledging that we all share common aspirations just as we also share familiar obstacles is crucial to creating a unified, peaceful community. From this acknowledgment, compassion can grow. If I can recognize myself in another’s actions, I cultivate greater understanding. My world view widens as the line between “us” and “them” begins to blur. The teaching deepens when I practice with someone I’m not particularly fond of. When I hear someone advocating a view that I don’t agree with, can I practice the just like me teaching? Just like me, she feels her opinion is true, reasonable and right. Just like me, she can lose her temper. Just like me, she could be feeling lonely or unlovable. If I find common ground with my perceived enemy, can I begin to soften my resistance?
So as Jackie and I shared our moment of melancholy, we also discovered a touchstone for deeper connection. The fancy millionaire and the plain hippie remembered that their hearts beat the same, with the same wishes and fears, the same strength and vulnerability. Just like the annoyingly healthy folks we were lunching beside. Just like the opinionated opponent. Just like me.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011, 6:28 PM
DMV. Three little letters that can instantly invoke a painful cringe. When it’s your turn to visit that illustrious institution, do you tingle with excitement? Looking forward to the delight that will greet you? Yeah, me too. In my mind, the DMV is a place where you must gird your loins before entering. Kinda like Toys ‘R’ Us. Or Chuck E. Cheese. Or the VFW on half-price beer karaoke night. That’s why the DMV is such a stunning venue for mindfulness practice. The teachings are endless at the Temple of the DMV.
My dear friend Mitzi recently had a miraculous experience that was inspired by an afternoon at the DMV. In tending to some Very Official Business, she eventually landed at the architectural gem commonly known as the Arvin DMV. Upon hitting the door, she was faced with an enormous crowd of folks in a long, slow moving line. Mitzi has some physical issues, as does her splendid husband Bob, and so they elected to have Bob wait in the car while Mitzi stood in line. She stood. And she stood. And then she stood some more. All the while, she felt herself percolating with negative thoughts. The line is so long. There are so many people. I could catch a cold. Everyone is angry and frustrated, including me. Why can’t things move more quickly? Don’t these people know that my husband is sick in the car and my back hurts and I’m deeply and justifiably annoyed? Why is the state of California (in the form of the DMV ) so dedicated to making my life a living hell?
Because my friend Mitzi is a skillful practitioner and an experienced student of self-study, she caught her mind spinning off into dangerous territory. She recognized that feeling crappy and angry and frustrated was a choice she was making. Yes, the line was long. Yes, there were many “unique characters” stuffed into the concrete box of a room. And, no, there was nothing she could do about the situation. But there was something she could do about her attitude towards the situation. Mitzi decided to relax. She opted to soften her hard-edged opinions and look at her circumstances with fresh eyes. Even as her sick husband was waiting in the car and her own backache was relentless, she shifted her perception and began to experience the DMV in a whole new way.
Her new eyes saw people being kind and compassionate. She heard mothers encouraging their children to read or play a game to pass the time. She saw big, burly men offering their chairs to older, fragile humans. She observed the patience of the administrative workers as they methodically served one customer after another. The DMV had magically transformed from an annoying exercise in frustration to a touchstone of sacred mindfulness. When she emerged sometime later, Bob commented on how her whole energy had transformed. She was not the same Mitzi who had entered the DMV. She was Magic Mitzi, Mistress of Metamorphosis!
Mitzi’s experience reflects a powerful teaching: Only I can destroy my peace, and I choose not to do so. Throughout the day, when it seems as if others are making my life difficult, I can stop and remind myself that I am the one who determines how I feel about what’s going on. I am the one experiencing the words and actions of those around me, and my perceptions are entirely up to me. Do those things in life that are effortless and joy will be mine. This does not mean to avoid things that are hard, but rather, to relax and find ways to make what is hard soft, what is difficult easy, what is undoable done.
Great gratitude for lessons learned in holy Arvin! May oceans of blessings pour down upon the Temple of the DMV, where the saints all gather and the teachings are infinite. Next!
Monday, July 4, 2011, 5:38 PM
I have a dear friend who is a brilliant business woman. She is enormously intelligent, exceedingly organized and impeccably trained. In serious financial meetings, I can get lost in the velvety smoothness of her words, mesmerized by her capacity to make business-speak sound coherent. And she does it all while looking like a Victoria’s Secret model in a skirt suit. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d hate her.
Also, she’s a pusher. Did I mention that? She’s hooked me on a habit that I’d never imagined I’d have. I’ve smoked and drank and done a drug or two or five in my day, but none of those came close to the compulsion she’s triggered from deep within me. Damn her and her treacherous shredding.
Yes, my friend is a shredder and now I’m one, too.
As a naïve yogi with a poverty level income, I was never one to shred. I thought shredding was a sign of paranoia. Only people with something to hide needed to shred, like politicians or BP executives. Yoga teachers don’t shred. What would I shred? My weekly asana sequences? Top-secret meditation techniques? A pirated copy of Light on Yoga?
My Goddess of Commerce girlfriend was appalled that I was a non-user. She assured me that my garbage can was teeming with information that could be used to steal my identity or charge up my credit cards or misappropriate my AARP membership. When her counsel fell on deaf ears, just like any good business person, she didn’t take apathy for an answer. As luck would have it, she’d just acquired a shiny new industrial strength PowerShred machine and in her great compassion for her needy friend, she left her old tired shredder on my front porch. Inside the screen door. Practically pushing its way into my house.
Because she is a friend whom I highly regard, I took her advice. What harm could it do? I probably should be shredding some of these old Sears bills, I mean; someone could do some serious appliance damage with my $75 credit limit. I pulled out a few docs and cautiously started the shred, one 8 ½ x 11 sheet at a time. As I fed the pulpy rectangles into the magical machine, long thin strands fell in graceful curls inside my trash can. The shredded bits were so lean and perfectly cut! I could feed the machine my unnecessary baggage and it would give me back these elegant lengths of happiness. There was something peculiarly satisfying about the whole process. More paper, more shreds. Big chunks into lean strips. OMG. I’m hooked. I’m a shredder!
I began to shred whatever I could. If it wasn’t crucial to the Yogashanan Global Takeover plot, I shredded it. Big boxes of paper crap that I’ve been dragging around for years were sliced into small curly bits. Tax returns from 1993? Old love letters from the jerk that broke my heart? That 2002 “Precious Moments” calendar? SHRED!
In my frenzy, I realized that the machine is sensitive. If I tried to push too much through its whirring blades all at once, it would jam. I found it worked best one sheet at a time without folds or creases. Gentle, steady feed. Gentle, steady outcome.
My new BFF (the Shredder) showed me I’ve been lugging an unnecessary paper load around with me for years. What else have I been dragging around that I’m ready to shred and dispose of? How about the disruptive mental images or regretted harsh words that plague me? How about a Guilt Shredder? Imagine! Take all that pointless guilt you’ve been dragging around forever and snap! Purged, unreadable, unrecognizable. But we must be mindful to not push too great a wad through the machine or it will jam. Just one debilitating issue at a time, please. And don’t forget to lubricate the Guilt Shredder with plenty of compassion. Without the oil of compassion, the Guilt Shredder could overheat, creating an ugly meltdown.
Move over, Kenmore. The Guilt Shredder 2000 is in development. Expect one soon on your front porch. Inside your screen door. Practically pushing its way into your house.
Thursday, June 23, 2011, 6:38 PM
Once upon a time, there were people dedicated to studying the ancient art and science of yoga as an intelligent path to liberating the mind and cultivating a sense of Oneness with All Things (aka Enlightenment.) But that was before yoga was introduced to the west around 1893 by Swami Vivekananda. And much like the legendary meeting between Bambi and Godzilla, Yoga encountered Capitalism and all hell broke loose.
Since that first teaching a short 108 years ago, the enthusiastic embrace of yoga in the west has birthed a six billion dollar annual industry. The Mad Men discovered that yoga sells and have wasted no time in hijacking the practice to promote everything from financial institutions (geeky Sun Life sales reps try to rename a yoga class Sun Life Salutations) to air fresheners (women spill into a girlfriend’s house, roll out their mats and she “plugs into her karma” (!) with a Glade plug-in which is hilariously ironic since most yoga studios strongly stipulate no scents or perfumes in class). The Corporate Suits salivate for the yogi consumer who has a shiny college education to go along with a sweet median yearly income of $85,000*. (*Statistics straight from the www.WallStreetYoga.com. website which is brought to you by Hedge Fund Live! Seriously.)
All this financial success and pop culture prominence has inspired an array of dubious products to separate the yogi from her dollar. Some favorite quirky merchandise: yogi sox with individual toes and sticky dots on the soles ensuring a non-slip practice and whose print campaign was the center of a ginormous brouhaha due to artsy photos of a naked yogini performing poses wearing only her yogi sox; the wrist-saver cuff that velcros to your arm for sturdier arm balancings; Yogapaws mini-mats strap to hands and feet for the traveling yogi. The Big New Thing is custom yoga mats of your own design. (In a particularly heartwarming moment of afternoon television, Jennifer Aniston gifted Oprah a custom mat featuring a family portrait of her dogs and Oprah damn near cried.) On your next free day in LA, you can get your groove on at Yoga Booty Ballet class and afterwards enjoy an ice-cold can of Yoga Bunny Detox (also known as Liquid Psychiatry.) If you’re feeling frisky afterwards, there’s www.SteamyHotYoga featuring women in bikinis performing inexplicable hip and chest openers while chanting to the camera, “Steamy… hot… yoga…”
So after 15 years of teaching, I’ve decided it’s time for me to infiltrate the retail yoga community. I know that feeling safe and protected is essential for any yogi’s practice to evolve. Safety first, right? Right! So get your credit card and consider this latest yogic innovation:
Tired of slamming your head to the floor in yoga practice? Had it with those unsightly forehead goose eggs that can follow a challenging arm-balance class? Knock your noggin in Peacock Pose? No more cracked cranium in Handstand, ever! Introducing the Latest Offering from the Stupid Yoga Prop Collection: Yogashanan’s YogaHelmet.
Yogis! Protect your sacred skull and its precious contents! Ergonomically designed by vegan engineers, the YogaHelmet is constructed from free-trade sustainable organic fiberglass with a zero carbon footprint. (Surely it’s needless to mention that no animals were injured in the manufacturing of this helmet.) Optional giant suction cup accessory provides a firm support for Headstand. Custom designs available: colorize sections of the helmet to reflect which portions of the brain light up during meditation; invoke a landscape of wild monkeys jumping through trees (your monkey mind at work); or leave it plain to symbolize the classic state of emptiness. Or a picture of your dog. Order today and get absolutely free the distinctive Pratyahara Pulldown Visor for your “withdrawal of the senses” practice; an indispensable aid in quieting that screeching harpy in your head. Simply pull down the vision-blocking visor, mute the built-in earbuds, insert the taste-killing tongue depressor and plug up those distracting nostrils. The YogaHelmet makes your Pratyahara practice a snap! Call now and receive absolutely at half-price an autographed copy of Yogashanan’s astounding book, Stumbling Towards Enlightenment: a Yoga 101 Collection. Now what would you pay?
Jen called yesterday to place a custom order for Oprah. I think I’m on to something.