Less show. More soul.
Oh the ways we love to hide...
2002. Mexican riviera.
I’m sweating, almost violently…
Barefoot in the middle of a tiled, thatched-roof palapa feet from the rolling surf. I’m there with a yoga wunderkind, an equally-acclaimed kirtan singer, and 100 sweaty humans training to become yoga teachers.
We practice. We teach. We move. We twist. We grind. We stretch. We shake. Until we can no longer move.
My head is pounding. Fruit is abundant. But all I want is caffeine. And a fan.
On the last day, something’s different.
Our leader begins to call postures. Minutes in, his number two takes over the call. Updog. Down dog. Fingers wide. Palms kiss the mat. He tags number three, who takes us through the next Sun Salutation.
I see the pattern and know what’s coming. Three others on his team take the teaching baton as we flow, a hundred sweaty bodies, pose-by-pose through the soupy morning air.
Nearly two hours remain. Who will lead next?
I stand in Namaskar. Mountain Pose, ere…