Yoga is not competitive. So why do they want it as an Olympic 'sport'?

So.  It was at the end of a yoga class at Vital Detox near Glastonbury.  The teacher, Julie, taught a version called Zen yoga and she’d tailored it specifically to tie in with our fasting. It was incredibly gentle (we didn’t even stand up to do our sun salutes but knelt).   Just as well.  My blood pressure was lower than ever and my blood sugar levels were floating around at floor-level so even standing still in Mountain was a challenge.  Even the thought of Tree sent me wobbling. 

We all need somebody to lean on. :-)

But it didn’t matter. Yoga is not competitive. In fact, I do the majority of my yoga practice with my eyes shut so I don’t even catch a glimpse of what other people are doing. I confess I did feel a little irritation creeping in, that I couldn’t stretch as far as normal, that I couldn’t balance as well, but I put it aside.  Yoga is not competitive.  Most teachers say you shouldn’t even compete with yourself and, while it’s only human to want to progress, the point is just to be, as you are, on the mat, each and every time.  Yoga is not competitive.  It’s about being. About exploring that state of being. About being in the moment, in your body, here and now. 

I bowed to thank Julie, and I told her how much I’d enjoyed the class, and we talked a little about this and that and then she said. ‘Would you believe that they want to turn yoga into an Olympic ‘sport’?’ And my head nearly hit the mat.   I shook my head in disbelief but a quick Google shows it’s true.  There is a lobby to turn yoga into an Olympic discipline. 

How would it work?  Each yogi would have three minutes to ‘perform’ seven poses – five obligatory, two of the contestants’ choice – and they would be judged on flexibility, timing, strength and breathing.  The idea comes from Rajashree Choudhury of USA Yoga (wife of Bikram Choudhury, founder of the original ‘hot’ yoga) who already holds competitive yoga contests in the States.  But…but…

Like this?  Kinda weird, huh? 

Her reasoning is that yoga-offs have been around for years in India.  That’s true but, then again, a lot of Indian yoga teachers roll their eyes at the shenanigans.  If you fancy a real eye-opener on all that, from an Indian yogi’s perspective, read Sivananda Buried Yoga (a totally amazing book - highly recommended).

I can sort of see why they want to do it – and there is a part of me that would absolutely watch it. Why? Because when you see someone do yoga really well, it’s absolutely awe-inducing.  Quite quite beautiful.  It shows just what a human body can do and be.  And I can see it might encourage people to try yoga (but then again, it might put them off for life as an impossible aim).

I mean...wow.  Love those leggings too. 

But then again…no.  Because, bottom line…Yoga is not competitive.  And mainly it makes me feel sad.  I mean...what next? Competitive meditation?  Competitive yogic flying?  Now, actually, that I would like to see.  J

inneroptics.tumblr.com

But hey, that’s just me.  What do you reckon?

Gog and Magog

So... I’ve been cleansing.  Fasting for a week, which is always interesting.  Often we eat (or rather over-eat or eat crap) stuff to dampen down our emotions, to distract ourselves from what’s really going on in our lives, our selves. Well, some of us do – others may use alcohol, or work, or drugs or cigarettes or whatever.  Others, of course, may be totally conscious.  *smile*

Anyhow.  It was good.  I had my own little cottage; simple, almost monk-like, yet comfortable, warm, serene.  A candle over the fire.  Flowers on the table. A snugly throw.  Instead of eating, I meditated, did some gentle Zen yoga and walked, in the aura of the Tor at Glastonbury. 

I didn’t talk that much but I listened, and I heard some things I needed to hear.  I met some very beautiful people but the encounter that touched me most deeply was with a tree.  Or, rather, two trees, but one wasn’t listening, or indeed talking, so much.

Gog and Magog.  Ancient oaks.  How old?  Some say 500 years, some go as far as 2,000.  Once they had companions, many of them, an avenue of oaks that led to the Tor and beyond.  There is even a legend that the oaks once linked the Tor to Arthur’s castle in South Cadbury, many many miles away.  Sadly, most were cut down to clear land about a hundred years ago, and just these two remain.  They say they are Druid trees, ‘wishing trees’ – with the ability to help you manifest your deepest desires.  I wonder.

Gog...grumpy old sod.

Gog is male, Magog female.  They stand close, their branches stretch out but cannot touch yet their roots are surely entwining.  Hollowed (hallowed?) out, the centre cannot hold.  They say that Gog is dead but I’m not so sure.  He felt, to me, as if he had sunk deep into himself, as if he could barely be concerned with the world (whirled?) any more.  But Magog kept watch and she was still listening.  Old, for sure, lightning-blasted, twisted, hunched, ancient of days (daze?) but still there, keeping a toe on Gog. 

Magog

I touched her skin and found, to my surprise, smoothness, softness, suppleness and something so deep and serene and loving, it took me by surprise.  And I talked to her and she smiled. I could barely bear to leave.  But, as I did, I noticed something daubed on the fence.  One word. 

That night I dreamed of Gog and Magog. Gog’s branches were growing, stretching down into the ground around, as if to prop him up.  And from those branches new saplings were springing up (and yes, I know, oaks don’t do that, but hey, it’s a dream, okay?) and their leaves were spring green and pure. Does anything truly (true lie) die?   

No dogs on strings, no swords, no cloaks, no staffs of power

Yeah, I felt like that...

Now where was I? Please excuse my discombobulation but I spent the weekend with my friend Kate and consequently I have had about two hours’ sleep, no longer have any vocal chords and my atoms really do feel as if they have been rearranged back to front.  

We went to Glastonbury.  Really I could stop right there and you’d get the picture but, actually, you wouldn’t because Glastonbury wasn’t quite as Glastonbury as it normally is.  We both agreed it was odd that we saw

• No dogs on strings
• No men in cloaks (with or without optional swords or staffs)
• No women in cheap velvet medieval barmaid dresses
• No people of any gender giving you those penetrating ‘I’m a magician; no really, I am!’ stares

Yeah, he looked like that (only older and fatter)

We were looking for a healer of some sort (preferably the chiropractic sort really) as some tosspot had arsended her car and left her with whiplash.  The first place we tried said CLOSED (even though the guy was sitting staring blankly at us through the window). The second place we tried offered us Tracey. Tracey had pin-in rainbow-coloured dreadlocks and apparently practiced Tibetan head massage so there were a whole bunch of damn good reasons right there why we backed away. Then we walked up some stairs and found this hobbit. Seriously. And so I left Kate with the hobbit for an hour and a half and floated round lusting after sky high bright red platform boots and buying out of print books with hilarious covers and flying incense.

And the hobbit fixed Kate.  Which really surprised the hell out of all of us.

And then we went back to her house and talked. And talked. And talked.

Yeah...just yeah...

There’s a whole long list of reasons why I love Kate but I think the trait I admire the most is her honesty.  We had some bloody deep conversations, about some pretty tough stuff. We didn’t always agree; in fact we agreed to disagree totally about some things. Other firmly held opinions were batted back and forth very vigorously but without bulldozing, without demeaning. We listened to one another; we tried to understand one another through this imperfect medium of language. We failed, frequently, so we tried again, a different way, using different words. And we didn’t give up until we’d got to understanding. Not necessarily agreement – but understanding.  I can’t tell you how refreshing that is. 

She’s bloody smart. She’s very real. She’s exceedingly brave.

Er....no....

She’s also got a shedload of wisdom in that noddle of hers.  She talks a load of sense.  And no, of course she doesn’t always follow her own wisdom.  She gets tripped up and falls over. Just like all of us. And she freely admits it.  Which is another reason I love her. It’s like I keep saying - I get queasy around gurus.  If someone is perfect; if someone is always gleaming pure white light with a side order of fluffy unicorns, rainbow dolphins and sparkly angels, my eyes narrow in disbelief.  Okay so there might be the odd ascended master or whatever floating around but I haven’t come across any, as far as I’m aware. Everyone else can only be good enough, pure enough, right enough, spiritual enough.  It’s like parenting.  Everyone fucks up sometimes. And if people don’t, I get suspicious. What are they suppressing? What are they hiding?  The people I trust, that I pay attention to, that I listen to, that I love, are the ones that lose the plot from time to time; that screw it up totally every so often; that are beautifully, blissfully, humanly flawed.  And, actually, if you look at most religions – with the honourable exception of Buddhism – there’s a whole lotta prophets and gods and what have you basically going medieval all over the place.  Food for thought, huh? J

God,  I love it when you get angry. :)

Btw, Kate doesn’t *get* Marek. Not remotely. No sirree. Yet, here’s the funny thing.  As I sat and listened to her, it all started sounding weirdly familiar. So much so that I kept shaking my head to dislodge the feeling of déjà vu.  Really, it was like listening to his twin. Except she's female and Englandish of course.