Fitness – The Woke Yogi

Death of the Guru

DISCLAIMER: The Woke Yogi is not an official site of the Fulbright Program or the U.S. Department of State. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State, or any of its partner organizations.

The Last Lineage Holder

The shala walls are lined with photos. In some, a teenaged boy prays with his family; in others, the same boy, slightly older, demonstrates advanced yoga postures. Many more photos show the man in middle-age, pacing between rows of mats or posing with crowds of smiling students. At the front of the room hangs the largest photo by far, adorned with strings of marigolds and bathed in incense smoke. In old age, the guru smiles down upon his disciples.

Sharath Jois was, until very recently, considered the primary lineage holder, or paramaguru, for the entire Ashtanga yoga tradition. He inherited the lineage from his grandfather, K. Pattabhi Jois, who created and popularized the Ashtanga sequences. Today, Ashtanga is one of the last remaining yoga styles to emphasize guru-śiṣya paramparā (GSP), the ancient South Asian tradition in which knowledge is meticulously passed from guru to disciple in unbroken lineage. It was precisely this tradition that drew me to practice Ashtanga in Mysore: I craved access to the original teachings, supposedly so whole and pure, undiluted by modern interpretation and therefore irrefutably authentic.

But shortly after I received my confirmation to attend classes at Sharath Yoga Centre, mere weeks before I was scheduled to arrive, Sharath Jois passed away. His death was sudden and unexpected, leaving the Ashtanga community reeling. For the first time ever, the lineage was without a paramaguru.

When the news of Guru Ji’s death arrived, many students had already booked their annual trips to Mysore. No one knew what would happen – would the shala close its doors for the season? If so, would it ever reopen? After several weeks rife with speculation, shala staff announced that classes would proceed as scheduled. There would be only one small difference: in lieu of the guru’s teaching, all students were to engage in self-led practice.

This request was not altogether radical given the unique pedagogy of the ashtanga tradition. Even under regular circumstances, all practitioners do self-led or “Mysore-style” practice five days a week. They still go to the shala daily, but rather than following a teacher’s verbal instruction, the students move through a pre-set, memorized sequence at their own pace. The teacher(s) walks around the room to give guidance to students individually. I have found that this teaching style promotes a more meditative experience – without having to listen to the teacher’s cues or worry about what posture comes next, I can focus more deeply on my internal alignment and breath.

In the wake of Guru Ji’s passing, however, the notion of an entirely self-led season seemed only to heighten the uncertainty clouding the ashtanga community. Students were still expected to pay the usual course tuitions – so what incentive did they have to show up at all, let alone practice in good faith? I was skeptical, to say the least. Judging by my own shaky self-discipline, I doubted that anyone would travel all the way to Mysore just to teach themselves.

I could not have been more wrong. When I arrived for my first day of class, dozens of mats were neatly lined up before the altar. The room, though quiet, was animated by movement. Students in the front row contorted themselves into impossible folds, even as those towards the back were just getting warmed up with Sun Salutations. On occasion, students would pause their own practice to give their neighbor hands-on adjustments. Many advanced students lingered in the shala after completing their own practices to assist students who had just begun. It seemed that in the absence of a central authority, the ashtanga community had come together to carry the lineage forward collectively.

Next in Line

What I witnessed in Mysore resonates with sentiments I have heard from many of my respondents in other parts of India. When asked if they follow a particular guru or adhere to a specific lineage, most of my respondents say NO – they favor a self-guided approach to spirituality instead.

One of my respondents, a yoga teacher from Uttarakhand, explained simply: “I’m not following any [gurus]… My journey is my journey. I am following myself.”

Another respondent, a yoga teacher from Gujarat, told me that he wholly disagrees with spiritual seekers who blindly follow their gurus: “They’re sheep!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “They don’t think for themselves.”

My friend from Rajasthan also confessed that he’s wary of trusting any one spiritual leader. “These gurus or these ‘God-men—” (he paused to shudder at the word), “—they aren’t always right. It’s best to learn from many different people and come to your own conclusions.”

Even my aunt, a devout Hindu from West Bengal who studied under a guru for decades, warned me about spiritual authorities who claim to be enlightened. “Always do your own research,” she instructed me. “Anyone can say that they know the truth about the universe, but it’s just their interpretation of the truth.”

Their responses shocked me. Prior to starting my fieldwork, I expected to find a thriving culture of gurus and ‘God-men’ in India; I imagined that strict lineage-based practices would be the standard, offering a simple way to distinguish Indian yoga from its bastardized Western counterparts. Evidently, such a clear distinction does not exist. Modern yoga practitioners around the world reject the possibility of an all-knowing guru – and many distrust gurus at large. Even Ashtanga, the lineage that I have always perceived as unconditionally guru-centric, seems to function just fine without its foremost figure.

Is the Guru Dead for Good?

And if so, what has prompted the passing of this age-old tradition? Perhaps we are simply seeing the global trend towards individualism play out on the yogic stage. People around the world crave more privacy and self-determination than ever before, and their dwindling sense of co-dependence renders the guru obsolete. Alternatively, we might blame the explosive growth of the virtual yoga industry. In the past, spiritual seekers had to leave their hometowns or even their home countries to identify suitable teachers. Now, hundreds of yoga influencers offer digestible tidbits for the modern yogi on every social media platform. Even the most charismatic gurus cannot compete with the convenience of discovering God in your living room.

More insidiously, the past several decades have seen a string of scandals around yoga gurus, revealing just how fraught the entire guru-disciple complex is. Throughout the 1970s and 80s, Guru Satyananda Saraswati of Yoga Nidra was investigated for child sexual abuse, and in 1991, Integral Yoga guru Satchitananda Saraswati made headlines for molesting his students. Bikram Chowdhury, creator of Bikram Yoga, accumulated five sexual assault-related lawsuits by 2014, to say nothing of his brazen capitalistic corruption. The #MeToo movement in 2017 spurred a new onslaught of allegations, with Ashtanga’s Pattabhi Jois and Kundalini Yoga’s Yogi Bhajan joining the list of sexual offenders. Just last year, Sadhguru of Isha Yoga Centre became embroiled in international controversy amid accusations of brainwashing and spiritual coercion. The regularity of these scandals suggests not just a few bad apples but an institutionalized pattern of abuse. Modern yogis have no choice but to question the power dynamics inherent within guru-led communities – and wonder whether guru-śiṣya paramparā is even worth preserving.

Abandoning this ancient education model isn’t without costs, of course. Gurus offer a structured yet personalized approach to spirituality. They inspire and empower their students, serving to motivate consistent practice and hold students accountable for their own improvement. Most importantly, gurus protect their students from harm. In postural yoga, gurus ensure proper alignment and physical safety, while in spiritual contexts, they guide students through practices that are mentally challenging and sometimes even psychologically dangerous. For example, many yogis believe that some Kundalini yoga exercises can induce psychosis; therefore, aspiring practitioners of Kundalini are urged to only practice under the supervision of a learned guru.

In my view, however, the cultural shift away from GSP aligns with the core yogic ethic of radical introspection. Traditionally, gurus have been glorified as sacred sources of knowledge; they were revered as spiritual guides or teachers, loved as parents, or even worshipped as gods. Yet, yoga scriptures teach us that we are one and the same with God; we already carry divine wisdom within ourselves, and rather than deifying other people, we need only look inward to discover it. Yoga trains us to tune in to our inner teachers. Given this framing, it makes perfect sense that modern yogis trust their own intuitions over those of external authorities. This mindset is even encouraged by the classical yogic texts!

Moreover, the guru’s declining popularity makes space for a more inclusive, democratic yoga tradition. After all, gurus are, first and foremost, gatekeepers of knowledge. Their preeminence in South Asian spiritual circles has historically made it difficult for many demographics, such as women and low-caste individuals, to access yoga. But yoga itself is not exclusionary – it is a tool for collective liberation! When we relinquish our fidelity to the all-knowing, infallible guru, we may begin to distribute power more equitably between teachers and students. We can welcome yoga practitioners of all backgrounds and encourage them to cultivate self-reliance and self-confidence, thereby modeling yoga not just in the teachings we offer but in the very way we transmit them.

Ashtanga clearly lives on, despite the death of its guru. If my observations are any consolation, you can trust that gurus do NOT singlehandedly sustain their lineages. That duty is held by students, preserving their yogic traditions through the profound act of practice. Certainly, the coming months will pose new questions and challenges as the Ashtanga community begins to chart a way forward in Guruji’s absence. But personally, I can’t wait to see where the lineage goes next.

Sorting Science from Superstition

The Curse of the Monkey Skull

Shadows descended over Tali Forest in the early afternoon, the sun dappled by tall rhododendron thickets and cut mountain creases to the west. My trek leaders spoke in hushed tones of Himalayan superstitions: of birds who cry like children and fairies that dance in the wake of death. As we hiked up the mountain, I teased them for their childish ghost stories. But when we arrived at our campsite, a shiver crawled down my spine. The clearing was littered with dried bones.

Eerie though it was, I was delighted to stumble upon a monkey skull at the edge of the woods – nearly intact, with a half set of teeth.

Such a unique souvenir! I thought to myself as I gingerly wrapped the oddity in layers of plastic and cloth.

My delight quickly faded, however, when I became violently ill later that evening. The hiking had been tough on my body, and at 13,000 feet above sea level, I struggled to recover. Although I’ve spent my lifetime living at high altitudes, that night, for the first time, I was struck by acute mountain sickness (AMS).

The following morning, after a long, miserable night in my tent, a fellow trekker pulled me aside:

“Hey, I know this sounds out there, but legend says you should never remove anything from these woods… lest you fall sick…”

My eyes flickered to my daypack beside me, which contained my prized monkey skull. Without him saying as much, I knew exactly what he meant: I’d return that skull if I were you.

He was right – it was out there. So why was I immediately inclined to believe his superstitious explanation? All my symptoms pointed to altitude sickness, and yet, that clinical diagnosis sat uneasily in my gut. I didn’t want to believe that my body was succumbing to the harsh demands of high elevation. In my moment of vulnerability, the notion that I had fallen victim to a monkey spirit’s curse flooded me with understanding, even relief. I’m not weak or out of shape, I reassured myself, I just angered the forest’s patrons.

My feverish imaginings of a vengeful primate seemed to soothe my throbbing head and roiling stomach. It was dubious, implausible, but this supernatural story allowed me to make sense of my condition. It lent mystical meaning to a memory otherwise marred by discomfort and disorientation. Most importantly, it shifted the blame off my own shoulders – admittedly, I had neglected the cardio regimen that was, evidently, necessary for acclimatization.

There’s no doubt that modern medicine offered me something more pragmatic, more actionable than did Himalayan legend. None of our trek leaders knew how to reverse a curse, but we had medics on hand to treat AMS. My trekking cohort took it upon themselves to cure me with electrolyte packets, Acetazolamide capsules, and plenty of fresh water. Indeed, by the next day, I felt well enough to walk myself back down the mountain.

As I arrived back at base camp, flushed with pride and accomplishment, I began to wonder: Must we forgo empiricism to accept esotericism? Can science and spirituality coexist? It was hard to deny that medical intervention had saved my ass, and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been called into the woods for a paranormal purpose. I had brawled with the forces of the forest and emerged none the worse, albeit with a newfound faith in the local people’s fables.

Shadows of Scientific Certainty

In a previous post, I wrote about how spiritual people are particularly prone towards pseudoscience. In their belief of biblical genesis, for example, Evangelical Christians often belie evolutionary science. Moreover, we all know an *astrology girly* who dismisses medical innovations as mere harbingers of the Aquarian Age. I once attended a workshop in Boulder on traditional breath and bodywork practices, ranging from reiki to yoga to chakra massage. One of the sessions, ominously titled “The Truth About COVID-19,” turned out to be a fervid condemnation of vaccines (in hindsight, maybe I should have seen that one coming…).

Before we write these conspiracies off, we must consider that for lay people, belief in science often requires just as much blind faith as spirituality. If NASA says that there is life on Mars, most ordinary people have no way to fact-check their claims. We possess neither the resources nor the know-how to conduct such experiments. We must simply take astrophysicists at their word, trusting that these mysterious elites, with their lofty credentials and their top-secret security clearances, are feeding us the truth about the universe.

The scientific method is grounded in evidence and transparency, to be fair. Peer-reviewed journals exist to substantiate all the discoveries that take place behind closed doors. But most of these publications are inaccessible to the general public. Scientific knowledge is hidden behind paywalls and buried in jargon, to the extent that even exceptionally resourceful individuals struggle to discern what humankind already knows to be true. You can imagine how certain populations might grow suspicious of science, especially when our education systems discourage us from questioning its authority. Think critically about everything, we tell our children, except science. That stuff has already been proven in ways that you don’t and might never understand.

Of course, scientists get things wrong every day. They work with existing information to develop theories, which other scholars then corroborate and modify and yes, often disprove. Our collective understanding of reality is ever evolving, but that doesn’t mean scientists are lying or incompetent or power-hungry. It simply means that they’re human. Scientists dedicate their lives to the pursuit of knowledge, and we must trust that their specialized expertise is superior to our feeble skills with Google.

Not everyone has that kind of trust. Just as I hesitated to concede my AMS diagnosis, many people refute science for reasons both personal and systemic. And who can blame them? To believe in science is to accept that fallible humans, who attempt to answer ethically fraught questions amidst a slew of competing financial and political interests, should dictate our perceptions of existence. By contrast, it seems a whole lot easier to believe in God.

Spirituality offers a way for common people to comprehend the inaccessible and oftentimes imperceptible findings of modern science. It is in our nature to seek answers about our surroundings; without access to peer-reviewed publications or the education to understand them, alternative explanations will inevitably arise. Long-lost legends and far-fetched fairytales are a means for us to grapple with the order of the cosmos and our place within it. They allow us to find solace, even comfort, in chaos.

Conclusions: On Coexistence

Two things can be true at once. Perhaps I came down with acute mountain sickness because I removed a monkey skull from the jungle. My willingness to indulge superstitions need not undermine my fundamental belief in science and its evidence-backed explanations of natural phenomena. When we accept that science and spirituality can coexist, we can begin to disentangle our faith from the pseudoscientific discourses that turn our spiritual practices into dangerous tools of misinformation and propaganda. We can work towards a more informed future, even while acknowledging the forces that may forever remain beyond the scope of scientific inquiry.

As for the monkey skull, I kept it! It was far too rare a find to return. My spooky souvenir now sits on my shelf as a reminder that belief is a spectrum — science salvaged my health, but superstition made my trek unforgettable. I have since identified the skull as belonging to a Hanuman Langur (Latin name: Semnopithecus).

If there was ever a curse upon my head, well, I suppose it was short lived. I made a full recovery after my bout with AMS and have since remained in good health. I certainly intend to take altitude training more seriously next time, but allow my story to reassure you: superstitions carry only the power that you give them.

11 Quirks of Seattle

Hello friends! As I am sure many of you know, I recently moved to Seattle, and it has taken every single one of my feeble brain cells to figure out this city. I traveled a bit before my move, but I’ll write about those adventures later—for now, I am completely enamored with the Pacific Northwest, and I thought it would be fun to share the first eleven quirks I noticed about this city.

Ever-Greenery (+ Pesky Ivy)

I was immediately struck by it on the drive up from Colorado. My Northwest-bound route was mainly monotonous: desert and dry shrub throughout Western Colorado, Northern Utah, Western Wyoming, and Southern Idaho. But as I wound down dark roads through Eastern Washington with a Uhaul trailer in tow, I found myself suddenly enveloped in lush forest. A light rain greeted me, alluding to the countless warnings I had received about Washington state’s climate. The towering hemlocks, firs, and cedars welcomed me in a way that Colorado’s flora never had.

After being here for a few months, the greenery continues to be the most comforting aspect of West Coast city life. I am incredibly fortunate to live half a block away from a forested park with over five miles of trails—my urban oasis with a surprising amount of foraging potential. I won’t even get into the insane greenery I saw on my recent trip to the Olympic Peninsula, which shall be a whole article of its own.

A good chunk of Seattle’s greenery comes from English ivy, which is quaint & cute cottage-core vibes….until you realize that it’s a rampantly invasive plant to this region. It takes over everything. I guess it’s good for the wildlife, though, because the ivy patch in front of my apartment is home to a family of large rats. Super fun for my cats, not so much for me.

Go Huskies!

Besides my unsatiable thirst for exploration, I was drawn to Seattle by a very exciting development: my acceptance to graduate school! Starting in the fall, I will study comparative religion and women & gender studies in South Asia. I am looking forward to building on my undergraduate research in Hindu women’s rituals and incorporating my new studies into my Yoga practice. The best part is that I’ve been offered a Foreign Language and Area Studies fellowship to complete this degree in exchange for studying Hindi (which I was going to do anyway).

I am also unbelievably lucky to have found an apartment near the university district in Seattle, so I live within walking distance of campus, and I am constantly surrounded by college culture. Though I don’t start classes until the end of September, I can tell that University of Washington (colloquially known as U Dub) students are full of pride in their school, and I am extremely optimistic about the faculty I will be working with during my two-year program.

Land Acknowledgements

Seattle occupies the traditional land of almost thirty indigenous American tribes, and the people here seem more aware of our continued colonization than most other places I’ve lived. I encounter land acknowledgments to the Coast Salish people and the Duwamish tribe almost everywhere I go, from natural landmarks to touristy urban destinations. I especially appreciate the ones at Snoqualmie Falls, which emphasize that sacred sites and resources were stolen from Indigenous Americans and commodified by colonial settlers. The Snoqualmie (meaning “moon” in Salish) region encompasses vast fertile valleys and a 268-foot waterfall, which was once coveted by indigenous Americans as a source of natural abundance and the birthplace of many formative myths. These myths speak of the Moon Transformer, Snoqualm, who birthed fire and trees from the sky unto the earth. The Moon Transformer receives offering from the falls’ water, so the land surrounding the falls served as ceremonial grounds and burial sites for the Snoqualmie people.

Unfortunately, the Snoqualmie land was settled by pioneers in the 1850’s, whereupon it was pillaged by loggers and later channeled into an underground power plant. Those hydroelectric generators still exist and operate today, appropriating the sacred energy of the Falls to provide electricity for surrounding areas. The natural marvel of Snoqualmie Falls, along with the power plant, continue to draw hordes of tourists that impact the remaining members of these indigenous tribes, as well as land back efforts.

While hiking at the falls, I was grateful to see plaques that were truthful about the power plant’s ugly history. Yet, written statements seem a feeble consolation for the native peoples’ loss of land, resources, and rituals. I wonder whether these acknowledgements are backed by tangible social action, and I must ask myself how I can make reparations to these indigenous Americans as I reside in their territory.

Water Water Everywhere

The wonder—and sometimes the terror—of living in Seattle is being surrounded by formidable bodies of water. Flanked by the Puget Sound to the West, Lake Washington to the East, and Lake Union in the North, there is never a shortage of water activities. I haven’t spent much time on the water since my summer in Tennessee, so I am soaking up my proximity to the ocean. Each morning, the tide recedes, making way for my newest hobby, the sister science to foraging in the woods: tidepooling!!! So far I have spotted anemones, starfish, hermit crabs, harbor seals, and sea otters all within thirty minutes of my apartment. I have never been an ocean girl, but I have a feeling I’m about to become one.

Lake Washington and Lake Union teem with wildlife, as well. Kaleidoscopes of swallowtail butterflies perch on the sandy beaches (fun fact: a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope!) while beavers build dams and Great Blue Herons dive for fish in the clear waters. I’ve been channeling my inner duck when I paddleboard through swampy enclaves.

Seattle Freeze

Okay, ouch. People warned me about this phenomenon before I made the big leap, but I wasn’t prepared for the honesty of the expression. “Seattle Freeze” refers to the tendency of Seattle residents to be cold, distant, and unwilling to make new friends. This disconnect has obviously been challenging for me as I attempt to find my people in this city. Seattleites aren’t downright mean—no, the freeze manifests in subtle ways, like the total rarity of smiles shared between passersby. The grocery clerk never asks me how my day is going, which isn’t an earth-shattering tragedy in and of itself, but my inability to connect with strangers has certainly hindered my transition. I’m used to the welcoming warmth of Coloradoans and the sickly-sweet hospitality of Midwesterners, so I’m curious to know why Seattle hardens everyone here. I fear I’ll succumb to the freeze if I stay here too long!

Native Fruit

My mom grew up in Tacoma, Washington and I fondly remember picking cherries from a tree in the backyard of her childhood home. Growing up in sub-desert Colorado, though, I always imagined that a backyard cherry tree was an unusual luxury, even in Washington. I could not have been more wrong. In hunting for mushrooms, I accidentally stumbled into the cherished PNW tradition of native berry picking. It was impossible to ignore—as I reached through thick brush to harvest an oyster mushroom, my hand met with a bushel of orange berries. I soon came to identify these enticing morsels as salmonberries, edible native fruits that have long been enjoyed by indigenous tribes. The Salish people ate the young plant shoots and the berries (which resemble salmon roe) with dried salmon, hence the name.

Once I worked up the courage to put my fruit identification to the test (by eating them and not dying), I discovered that the PNW is rife with streetside pickins. I have since found native thimbleberries, huckleberries, salal berries, raspberries, grapes, cherry plums, and blackberries—OH, the BLACKBERRIES. They are everywhere. The native species, rubus ursinus, is harder to spot as it grows close to the ground, but the invasive and incredibly noxious Himalayan blackberry has taken over every street corner and city park. While most edible berries have now gone out of season, the Himalayan blackberries are just now starting to ripen. I plan to take this opportunity to perfect my jam recipe. I have also honed my ability to spot poisonous berries, including snow berries and deadly nightshade. A tip for foragers across the world: 99% of aggregate cluster berries (like blackberries and raspberries) are edible, so munch away!

Cultivated Fruit

Finding free fruit on the streets is a novel thrill for me, but I have also noticed that people in Washington are crazy about their fruit in general, even the non-native cultivars. I moved to Seattle in time for peak fruit season, July through September, during which grocery stores and farmer’s markets boast fresh, locally grown peaches, apples, cherries, and numerous other stone fruits. If you’re lucky, you can catch the fruit vendor just after his daily delivery and enjoy divinely juicy nectarines that were picked and shipped from Yakima that same morning! Rainier cherries are the main summer craze, hailing from Washington state and named for the region’s beloved glaciated peak, Mount Rainier. I never would have guessed that two species of red cherry could combine to produce a new fruit that makes every other fruit’s taste and aesthetic value pale in comparison. Nonetheless, I have hopped on the Washington fruit bandwagon, and I now indulge in melt-in-your-mouth white peaches every morning for breakfast.

Daily Commute

I knew Seattle traffic was dreadful, but nothing could have prepared me for the haphazard road infrastructure, which necessarily accommodates odd land shapes formed by surrounding bodies of water. The specifics of the driving terrors I have encountered are not important, but I have finally drawn a conclusion as to why driving is so frightening here. I have driven through more than half of the states in the U.S.., and I find the middle states to be the easiest to navigate. Driving in East coast states like New York and New Jersey can be intimidating due to urgency and aggression on the road, while driving through the American South can be mind-numbingly slow and boring.

Somehow, driving through Seattle encompasses the worst aspects of both extremes. For some downfalls, I question the urban developers—why do they hate turn lanes? Why don’t they understand what signage is relevant? Why is the speed limit 25 MPH on every road? Most of the time, however, I ask myself about the people that commute in this city. Drivers, pedestrians, and cyclists alike seem to have very little regard for their own fragile lives. Suffice to say that my Yoga practice has become even more integral to my daily commute.

Ethnic Cuisine

Seattle boasts diasporas from many nationalities (namely from Asia and Pacific islands), so it comes as no surprise that the cuisine of the city is likewise diverse. Yes, there are espresso shops on every corner, but no one talks about the boba tea shops, of which there are twice as many. Indian food, Ethiopian, Thai, Vietnamese, Mexican, Italian…I could go on. If you want it, you’ll find it in Seattle. I haven’t done too much foodie exploration yet, but I do enjoy living near Din Tai Fung, a tantalizing dim sum restaurant in University Village.

The Rain (or lack thereof)

Ah, yes, the dreaded Seattle gloom. Before my move, I met so many people who lived in the PNW and moved away because they couldn’t stand the climate. Some emphatically advised me to get a “Happy Lamp,” while others just shook their heads and said sadly, “you’ll never see the sun.” I heeded their forecasts and bought a light therapy lamp off Facebook Marketplace as soon as I got into the city. The previous owner told me she was moving out-of-state: “somewhere sunnier,” she bragged, referring to Colorado. Indeed, Colorado boasts 300 days of sunshine, which makes even the coldest, snowy winter mornings feel bright and beautiful. In the meantime, Seattle was prophesied to be dreary all winter without even a good powder day to ease the pain.

I worried that constant overcast skies would affect my mood and my spiritual practice, but I came at a good time. The daily rains subsided in early June, and since then we’ve had an *uncomfortably* dry and hot summer. Historically, Seattle summers haven’t even been hot enough to warrant air conditioning in private residences. It’s temperate here year-round, traditionally with highs in the 80’s and lows in the 30’s (Fahrenheit). Sadly, climate change has brought heat waves over the city for the past few years, and this summer was no different. For two weeks in mid-July, temperatures passed 100 degrees every day, and Sky and I scrambled to keep our cats and reptiles cool with only a couple of fans.

I know I’ll regret saying this come January, but I’m looking forward to the Seattle rain that I was promised. We’ve had the occasional morning shower, but the lack of moisture is seriously impeding my current favorite hobby, which is of course…

MUSHROOMS!!!

My love for mycology was undoubtedly the #1 driving factor behind my West coast relocation. Sky and I have been getting more confident in our identification abilities recently, so we were itching to test out our skills in new territory. The timing of our move was perfect because we had an excellent month of spring mushrooms before the forest dried out. The park near our apartment has proved fruitful for smooth puffballs (edible), scarlet bonnets (inedible, but stunningly beautiful), and fly agarics (poisonous and psychoactive). My favorite spot so far is an adorable mossy clearing that flushes with oysters (edible and choice!) almost every week. Though we haven’t found much during the dry season, September is sure to bring enough moisture for the mycelium to fruit. I’m hoping for chanterelles this autumn!

Have you noticed the trend in my observations? I’m not sure that I’m cut out for city living…driving is unpredictable, a dark winter is coming, and let’s be real—shit’s expensive up here. Unsurprisingly, nature has been my saving grace. Whenever I need to escape this urban enigma, I can venture into the woods or hop on my paddleboard.

My Yoga practice has also been integral for my sanity throughout this wild transition, and I am proud to announce that I began teaching at a new studio called Shefa Yoga Roosevelt! I am so grateful to have this studio and community as I get oriented in my new life. I also adore having students who are receptive when I share traditional aspects of Yoga such as mythology, philosophy, and subtle body attunement. If you happen to be in the Seattle area and would like to practice with me, I teach on:

Tuesdays @ 6:00 AM

Saturdays @ 4:30 PM

Sundays @ 9:30 AM

I get one buddy pass for each class, so please reach out if the drop-in cost ($25) hinders your ability to practice. I would love to move and breathe with you, as well as hear your thoughts about Seattle. What did you notice first? Do you like the rain? What’s your least favorite thing, and why is it the driving?

Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for more on yoga & adventures in Seattle!

Magical Midwest

I’ve been road tripping 😊 I got back last week, and I’ve finally had a chance to collect my thoughts. Eight weeks of traveling solo really took it out of me!

I had been wanting to do a big trip after I graduated last May, but COVID-19 wiped out my plans for the year, as I’m sure you can all understand. When restrictions loosened, my wanderlust mixed with continued skepticism about leaving the country. Then, I realized that the pandemic had scattered my closest friends across the Eastern United States, many of them to places I had never been!

My lease in Boulder ended in September, so I quit my job, packed up my new-to-me Subaru Crosstrek, and set off. I was fortunate enough to be able to stay with friends along the way, and I brought my portable camp stove so I could save money on meals. I spent the first three weeks or so in the Midwest, and what a magical three weeks it was! Ohio, especially, is the brunt of a lot of jokes when it comes to states that are “interesting” or “important” or “nice to live in.” I must admit, after finishing my undergraduate in Ohio, I do have a soft spot for this…ahem…irrelevant state. In my most recent travels, however, I discovered what Ohio is great for. Mushroom hunting!!!

The proudest day in my mycology career was the day I spent in Cuyahoga Valley National Park, Ohio. I saw hundreds of specimens while hiking just six or seven miles through the woods, including the prized amanita muscaria.

If you don’t recognize this picturesque toadstool from fairytale illustrations, you might know it from the Super Mario Bros. franchise. This one was hiding coyly under a leaf, not two yards from the trail. I’m so glad I looked in that direction because I’ve been hunting for one of these elusive morsels for years. The “Fly Agaric” mushroom IS psychoactive, though it is not the strain commonly referred to as “magic mushroom” (psilocybe cubensis). This specimen has a long entheogenic history in shamanic traditions all over the world. In Siberia, indigenous mystics would ingest the caps and relay their experiences as transcendental visions, prophetic communications from the world above.

No, I didn’t try it. It’s illegal to remove anything from a national park, and anyway, I didn’t have the materials to make a proper spore print. I decided not to disturb the forest for my own selfish curiosity. I still felt quite blessed to have seen the specimen at all, and I finished my forage with a newfound appreciation for the muggy air that I had always hated about Ohio. Thanks to the humidity, I saw more fungal growth that one day than I’ve ever seen in Colorado (hint: I haven’t been looking in the right places)!

Besides the treasured amanita muscaria, I saw several other gems on my adventure throughout the American Midwest. My first stop on the long journey was a music festival on the Kansas/ Missouri border, and that weekend alone provided enough stimulation to last me through a whole new lockdown.

Dancefestopia: LaCygne, Kansas

Dancefestopia Music and Arts Festival is a relatively small electronic music festival held at Wildwood Outdoor Education Center. Accordingly, the 10,000 attendees are essentially overgrown children covered in dirt and glitter, gathering in a field to dance, play, and trade tie-dye and other trinkets. It’s a very PLUR (peace, love, unity, respect) vibe and the fest falls on my little sis’ birthday weekend, so we always try to go.

My secret to affording music festivals is simple: I volunteer at them. Like many other fests, Dancefestopia offers a highly discounted ticket ($50) in exchange for a set number of hours worked during the event, and it’s a great way to make new friends. We saw artists with the likes of Jai Wolf, Troyboi, Rezz, and GRiZ. We also chilled in hammocks by the lake, got a treat from our favorite festival food truck (SPACE FRUIT!), and met up with all sorts of great people—the highlight of the weekend for me was seeing my old friend Cece. We originally met at Resonance Music & Arts Festival in PA in 2019. When we found out we would both be at Dancefest, we made plans to meet up, but inevitably, I lost service once we arrived at the campgrounds. It was purely by luck that we ran into each other because we did so past our meeting time and not anywhere close to our meeting spot. Ah, the magic of festivals!

Convergence Station: Denver, Colorado

After Dancefest, I left my car in Iowa and flew back to Denver for a short stint. I had a couple of appointments, but more importantly, the new Denver Meow Wolf exhibit was having its grand opening! Naturally, I snagged tickets for opening day. You can find my full review of Convergence Station in my post about Immersive Art, but suffice it to say that Meow Wolf is reason enough to travel 800 miles out of the way.

Morton Arboretum: Chicago, Illinois

I flew back to the Des Moines airport and began the car-only part of my trip, setting off for Chicago. I had never driven in Chicago, so I was somewhat unnerved to find myself driving long stretches in underground tunnels with stop lights lurking past every twist and turn. Tunnel driving is stressful enough—why further complicate it with surprise hazards?!

Buena Park, a neighborhood nestled along the Western coast of Lake Michigan, is home for Caleb, one of my dear friends from college, and his eccentric Maine Coon, Huey. I spent one evening with him, catching up and hearing about all the cats he watches in the city.

We had an early start the following morning, as he was off to cat sit and I wanted to hit an art exhibit before leaving the state. Then I was southbound, winding underneath the Chicago River once again as I exited the city.

I arrived at the Morton Arboretum a bit early, during members-only hours, but the kind lady at the visitor center didn’t seem to mind. This was the first time I had ever visited a sanctuary like this, and it wasn’t just for the trees—through Spring 2022, Morton Arboretum plays host to a five-part installation by one of my favorite multi-media artists, Daniel Popper. I first experienced his work in Tulum, Mexico, and again several years later at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. Human + Nature, as this installation is named, is my favorite of his so far; it is the largest in scale and beautifully complemented by the serene natural surroundings of the arboretum. The five sculptures were in five different parts of the park, each one the thematic centerpiece of the plants around it. Visitors were encouraged to touch and explore, although not climb, the life size sculptures. It is impossible to say which one I liked the best because they were all creatively stunning in their own ways.

Lost Lands: Thornville, Ohio

Upon completing my tour of Morton Arboretum, I made for Ohio, my ex-state of residence which I remember fondly (although I can’t say I would ever move back). I was on to the second music festival of my trip: Lost Lands. This festival is markedly bigger, heavier, and crazier than Dancefest, with a prehistoric theme that utilizes life sized animatronic dinosaurs throughout the grounds. In the past, I have considered Lost Lands “home,” but this year, the LL gods did not smile on me.

I drove into a nasty thunderstorm in Indiana that followed me all the way to Thornville. Catastrophically, torrential rain hit as the first wave of attendees were pulling into their campsites and unloading their gear. The downpour continued for several hours, transforming the dusty fields into saturated mud pits, and placing a bleak damper on the fun to come. Luckily, I was stationed in the information tent for my first volunteer shift, so I was shielded from the angry sky, but we had no power, no heat, and tragically, no service. Everyone else was hiding out in their cars, so we didn’t answer many informational questions that first night, but I did make friends with some lovely gals named Liz and Emily, who had come all the way from Massachusetts.

Sadly, the morning of Day 0 (the pre-party) did not look up from the night before. The grounds remained soaked to the point that festival organizers began turning attendees away. That mess was unbeknownst to me, for I had woken up in the backseat camper of my Crosstrek with a terrible feeling in my gut. What I initially thought was an adverse reaction to the tater tots I had eaten the night before quickly made itself known as a stomach virus—easily the worst one I have ever experienced. I was unable to keep even a sip of water down, and I was crippled by a grinding pain in my abdomen. I was camped by myself, on the outskirts of a muddy field, with my car tires completely sunk into the mud. As a volunteer, I had been placed in the farthest possible “worker” campsite, several miles down the road from the event grounds in rural Ohio. Food and water were a bumpy twenty-minute bus ride away; port-a-potties were at least thirty minutes by foot. In my condition, I couldn’t get more than five feet from my vehicle.

Around noon, I ran out of water and began to panic. I was still violently ill, the festival was in the early stages of last-minute cancellation, and I had no way out of my situation. I befriended a fellow staff member who offered me some medicine to get my nausea under control. When I could finally stand without retching, I was able to flag over an on-site tractor to tow me out of the mud. For the record, I have all-wheel drive and “X-MODE,” whatever that is. When I say I was STUCK in the mud, you know what I mean.

Miraculously, I got my car to move, and I got my organs to stop moving just long enough to drive to Columbus, just over an hour away from the festival. I sought refuge with Georgia, an absolute angel who was my roommate all through undergrad. I cannot understate how lucky I was to have her during this tribulation. She might have literally saved my life with her electrolyte mix. After a day of resting on her couch and cautiously sucking on ice chips, I was able to keep some fluids, and then some food, in my system. By the time music was starting on Lost Lands Day 1, I had regained enough strength to return to the festival and rage!

The lineup for 2021 was INSANE and I saw a ton of my favorite DJs who I had never seen before, including ARMNHMR, Crystal Skies, Trivecta, and Fancy Monster. Most people think of Lost Lands as a heavy dubstep festival (which it is!), but the lineup of artists is so diverse and so stacked that you can really pick and choose between genres of dubstep you like. For me, that’s melodic bass, so I hardly spent any time headbanging! Despite a rocky start, Lost Lands turned out to be an amazing weekend, filled with good music and good vibes.

Columbus, Ohio

On Monday morning after the festival’s conclusion, I set off for Columbus again, this time ailed by an acute case of post-festival depression. My digestive tract was finally feeling back to normal, and my spirits were high—up until my arrival at Georgia’s loft in the Short North, where I discovered that I had inadvertently passed my sickness to Georgia and her boyfriend. They were recovering slowly and luckily for me; they were only mildly amused and not at all upset that I had ruined their weekend. I stayed with Georgia and Aron for a week or so and tried to redeem myself for putting them through a forcible digestive cleanse, as we took to calling it. I can’t speak for them, but my intestines had been completely reset once the whole thing was said and done.

Georgia and Aron showed me around several parts of Columbus, including a bunch of delightful restaurants and eateries. My favorites were Fox in the Snow, a local coffee shop that served a souffle egg sandwich; Pistacia Vera, a French bakery that was just as pleasing for the eye as it was for the tongue; and Eden Burger, a plant-based fast-food joint whose fries were to die for. They also took me to the Columbus Art Museum and the Franklin Park Conservatory & Botanical Gardens—both stunning. The former destination offered a special exhibition on the work of Columbus artist Aminah Robinson, while the latter featured hundreds of breathtaking installations by glassblower Dave Chihuly.

While in Columbus, I also had a chance to stay with Margo, my friend and mentor from college, her boyfriend Jackson, with whom I was previously acquainted but never knew well, and their rather interesting cat Rosaline. Margo helped me infiltrate the Ohio State University library so I could get some work done, and I learned some fascinating things about the OSU mascot, Brutus. You probably know of the Ohio State Buckeyes, but did you know that the mascot is a literal buckeye? Not a squirrel or a groundhog or any other creature that might serve as an ambassador for a buckeye, but an actual nut with eyes and legs? Apparently, Brutus has had a long, dark history. The mascot suit has undergone many changes since the institution of modern college mascots, and I’ll let you all be the judge of which iteration is the creepiest. My vote is for 1975.

Margo is a member of CorePower Yoga. She encouraged me to finally cash in my three free classes and I had a blast, even though I hadn’t done hot vinyasa in a long time and thought I was going to die at times. The owner asked if I wanted to teach there and I had to explain that my own Yoga practice doesn’t necessarily align with the CorePower model, which tends to prioritize fitness and body image over stillness and intrinsic awareness. She seemed somewhat offended that I brought this up, but she agreed that, CorePower’s “whole shtick” is fitness. Still, I believe it is important to have conversations about the histories and cultural contexts of the practices we market for commercial gain. To me, it seems that CorePower uses the word “Yoga” to attract paying audiences to a practice that is, in many ways, antithetical to the philosophical roots of Yoga.

Eberhart Wedding: Northern Ohio (Rootstown/ Kent/ Akron/ Cleveland)

Around the second week of October, I bid my Columbus friends farewell and went North towards Cuyahoga County. I spent a day in the national park, making revolutionary fungal discoveries every few steps. That evening, my boyfriend Skyler flew in from Denver. He’s also an avid mushroom hunter, so I took him into Cleveland the next day, to a public park that is a part of the Old Growth Forest network. True to its name, the park was a wonderland of Ohioan biodiversity, featuring centuries-old vegetation, rare fungus, and cold-blooded creatures. Can you spot the critter in this photo?

The main reason for us being in North Ohio was that my good friend Olivia had asked me to be her bridesmaid. I spent a lot of time with Olivia and her then-boyfriend, Robbie, in college, and I always adored them together, so it was very exciting to be a part of their wedding. After marking off our finds in our field guide, Sky and I drove over to Kent to meet up with the other folks in the bridal party: Talon, Lexi, and Michaela. I was friends with all three of these people in college, yet I had seen none of them since before the onset of the pandemic, so it was wonderful to catch up over manicures. The rehearsal dinner went smoothly, and we concluded the night with a bonfire at Lexi’s house. Good dogs, great cheese, and excellent camaraderie made for the perfect precursor to the big day, and I even bonded with Lexi’s mom over puffballs, an edible fungus that often pop up in yards and lawns!

The Eberhart-Rocco wedding was a beautiful, love-filled affair. The ceremony, held at Olivia’s childhood church, was traditional and very sweet. The reception was at the Akron Museum of Art, and guests were invited to peruse the galleries as they waited for the festivities to commence. The entire menu—down to the cupcakes—was vegan (and delectable, if I do say so myself). I teared up at several points throughout the night, but Robbie’s reaction to seeing Olivia coming down the aisle was easily my favorite moment, closely followed by Lexi’s maid of honor speech. I got to see Caleb again, as well as some other great folks I know from college. The DJ played some bangers!! Now, I’ll think of Olivia and Robbie whenever I hear “Blinding Lights” by the Weeknd.

Marriages, mascots, music, mushrooms. Do you see why my time in the Midwest was magical? I must admit, I’ve never lauded Ohio with such a word, but aside from contracting norovirus, the first few weeks of my road trip were positively so. Which leads me to another story about norovirus—yes, someone else along my journey contracted the dreadful cleanse, but that is a story for another time. Check back next week for the next leg of my journey: the historical states!

Category: Fitness