Yoga – Page 2 – The Woke Yogi

Antiquity

Welcome to Part 2 of Sounding Off: Antiquity! If you’re new to the Sounding Off series, you can quickly get caught up on the series archive.

Last week, in Aurality, we began our journey by investigating the Vedic oral tradition. This week, we’ll continue our discussion of ancient India, but we’ll inquire a bit deeper into the structures of power that make this tradition tick. As you explore the content in the tabs below, consider the question that we seek to answer, each in our own ways:

Should we really be speaking Sanskrit in our yoga classes?

Check back next week on Wednesday, July 10 for Part 3 of Sounding Off: Alchemy!

Aurality

Welcome to Part 1 of Sounding Off: Aurality. If you’re new to the Sounding Off series, you can quickly get caught up on the series archive!

This week, we’re diving in with the Vedic oral tradition, philosophies of sacred sound in South Asian religions, and the spiritual significance of Sanskrit in yoga. As you explore the content in the tabs below, consider the question that we seek to answer, each in our own ways:

Should we really be speaking Sanskrit in our yoga classes?

Check back next week (July 3rd) for Part 2 of Sounding Off: Antiquity!

Welcome to SOUNDING OFF!

When I first started teaching yoga, I was adamant about speaking Sanskrit in my classes. I memorized tons of Sanskrit terms and scoffed at teachers who only used the English pose names.

Then, as I learned more about South Asian history, all those foreign words in yoga class just started sounding…off.

Now, I know that there are two (or three, or a hundred) sides to every story. Written history only preserves the practices of the privileged, and yoga is no exception.

That’s why I’m launching Sounding Off, a 7-part critical series on Sanskrit in modern yoga. This series is intended as a practical guide for yoga teachers and casual practitioners, hobby linguists and aspiring Sanskritists, philosophers, skeptics, and long-time lovers of Indic spirituality. If you’re ready to think critically about the spiritual + socio-political dimensions of Sanskrit in modern yoga settings, stay tuned — for the next seven weeks, I’ll be sounding off right here on The Woke Yogi.

The series archive is live NOW. I’ll be updating that page weekly as I release new content on my blog. Each part of the series will include:

Research essays that translate rigorous, world-class yoga scholarship into accessible information for the general yoga community.
Poetic essays & other short creative pieces that ground these critical ideas in my personal experiences and embodied yoga practice.
Practical guide for yogis, including actionable tips, self-reflection questions, further readings, and other resources to help you integrate your learnings.

All this content is FREE & completely OPEN ACCESS! This is part of my mission to democratize yoga through jñāna (knowledge). Our objectives are as follows:

1. Contextualize Sanskrit within broader systems of power in South Asia.

2. Assess the pros and cons of speaking Sanskrit for yoga.

3. Critically analyze the role of Sanskrit in modern yoga settings.

Go explore the archive, find out what to expect, and come let me know in the comments which week you’re most excited for. Part 1 of the series, titled “Aurality,” will be available next Wednesday, June 26. Don’t forget to subscribe (sign-up in the sidebar to the right) and follow The Woke Yogi on social media (links below) to be sure that you don’t miss any new content!

Reflection Questions to Prime Your Thinking:

Do I speak Sanskrit in my yoga classes? Why or why not?
Do I know WHY Sanskrit is so often spoken in modern yoga classes?
How do I/ how can I honor the roots of yoga in my personal practice?

A Meditation on Yoga

“Inhale, arrive on your mat.”

It was my very first yoga class, and I was there because I aspired to touch my toes.

“Exhale, shiiiiine your love outward like a rainbooowwww,” the Lululemon-clad instructor crooned, “and remember: yoga is whatever you make it!”

Throughout the 18^th and 19^th centuries, westerners viewed yoga as an esoteric tradition: practiced on the fringes of orthodox Indic societies by magicians and priests; shrouded in superstition. But when Hindu monk Swami Vivekananda spoke about yoga at the 1893 World Parliament of Religions in Chicago, and when the physical fitness revival of the early 20th century swept the globe, yoga exploded into the mainstream. Hindu nationalists hailed yoga with a newfound vigor, touting its indigenous character. New Age hippies were equally enamored; since the 1950s, yoga studios have popped up around the globe, attracting celebrities from Marilyn Monroe to Adam Levine, while brands like Alo Yoga and prAna have seized the athleisure market. Suddenly, yoga is no longer a secretive lineage from the ‘exotic East,’ but a popular fad – a stretching routine. Yoga is…just exercise?

“Inhale, stay.”

I closed my eyes and an ethereal sitar tune began to play, transporting me to the Indian subcontinent of millennia past.

The earliest known definition of yoga appears in India’s oldest text, the Rig Veda, dated 1500 to 1000 BCE. In these ritual prescriptions, yoga means ‘to yoke’ or ‘to connect;’ it is the action of harnessing a horse to a war chariot, therein submitting the horse to the charioteer’s will. Several centuries later, in the Upaniṣadic texts, yoga became a series of exercises for one to restrict the body and discipline the mind, usually as a means to seek metaphysical power or attain mystical union with god. The 3rd century BCE Kaṭha Upaniṣad asserted that yoga is “firm restraint of the senses.” As one harnesses a horse to a chariot, yoga harnesses the mind to the body. I was starting to understand this form of torture self-restraint as the instructor reminded me to return to my breath, even though we had been sitting criss-cross-applesauce forever and I couldn’t feel my feet. Whether the goal is to commune with the cosmos or simply to condition your quads, yoga is control.

“Exhale, downward dog!”

I pressed myself up, relieved to distract my mind, only to discover a new kind of fatigue igniting in my legs and shoulders. My body began to shake, and I fought the urge to collapse back to the ground. Evidently, yoga is as mental as it is physical. In the Bhagavad Gita, the god Krishna tells royal warrior Arjuna that yoga is “skill in action.” He commands Arjuna to be a yogi to fulfill his divine duty–of slaughtering his own family on the battlefield. Like Arjuna, I failed to see the purpose of my excruciating position, and like Krishna, my teacher was strangely militant about demonstrating yogic willpower – albeit through core workouts, not holy war. Yoga, then, is the discipline to do what you may not want to; the patience to serve a greater good that you may not yet understand. Yoga is control.

“Inhale, three-leg dog!”

The room burst into a silent symphony of swaying limbs. The yogis around me contorted themselves into incomprehensible shapes, touching their toes in a thousand ways that I never thought possible. The teacher rattled off foreign words: śvānāsana, añjaneyāsana, uttānāsana…

Āsana means “seat” or “posture,” and it is one technique by which yogis discipline their bodies in pursuit of spiritual power. Around 200 CE, āsana appeared as the third precept in the Yoga Sutra, an aphoristic text on yoga philosophy. At that time, however, the list of āsanas was limited to those suitable for seated meditation: sukhāsana, padmāsana, and vajrāsana. It wasn’t until much later, in the 13th century Haṭhapradīpikā, that āsana was elevated to a foremost priority. The Haṭhapradīpikā codified 84 total postures, and furthermore recommended bandhas (muscular locks), mudrās (gestures), dṛṣṭis (gazing points) and prāṇāyāmas (breath restraint techniques) to train and constrain the body. Yoga is control.

“Exhale, warrior two!”

The pace of class quickened, and the postures began to flow together, fast and fluid.

“Inhale, reverse triangle!”

The music intensified, matching the rhythmic pulse of breaths in unison.

“Exhale, extended side angle!”

A bead of sweat dripped off my forehead.

“Inhale, half-moon!”

My feet hurt. My breath burned in my throat. I wanted very badly to be done.

“Exhale, chaturanga dandasana!”

Really? Push-ups? I thought this was supposed to be relaxing.

“Inhale. Pause.”

I laid down on my back. The sensation of movement lingered in my tissues as my breath slowed.

In the Yoga Sutra, āsana is merely a step taken to prepare oneself for samādhi: a pure state of meditative consciousness. Yoga is citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ: “the stilling of the turnings of the mind.”

“Exhale. Rest.”

I dropped into śavāsana: the pose of the corpse. The air in the studio quieted. My body softened, my mind stilled. For a time, I was neither sensing nor sleeping, but simply experiencing. Yoga is the absence of sensory intake; both this moment of uncanny stillness and every moment that builds up to it. First, yoga is just exercise, and then it is control. But ultimately, yoga is surrender.

A Visionary Experience

“Organic…wheatgrass…smoothie stand…” I muttered to myself, my breath hitching as I trotted along the uneven dirt path. I had been walking for maybe 20, max 25 minutes. The journey wasn’t long, but I didn’t exactly know where I was going, and after twenty-some minutes alone with my own thoughts, I began to wonder if I had already passed my destination. I peered over my shoulder and saw the same stretch of road I had just walked. No smoothie stand. It must be further ahead, then, I thought, and kept walking.

“Smoothies…organic smoothies…”

I wasn’t craving a smoothie. No, I wasn’t really looking for the smoothie stand at all. Rather, I was seeking what lay behind the smoothie stand; an elusive treasure promised to me by a stranger…

I had arrived in Tulum the night before, with only my yoga mat and a small backpack in tow. For the three weeks prior, I had been living with a Mexican host family in Merida.

The bus ride between the two Yucatecan cities was a few short hours, but transportation delays and my own neglect to consider time differences caused me to nearly miss the check-in window at my hostel. Luckily, the staff at “Mama’s Home” took pity on me.

After a good night’s rest in my shared dormitory, I woke early, intent on making the most of my weekend in Tulum. Mama’s Home Hostel served delicious homemade breakfasts every morning!

Mama’s Home was in the heart of town, but the locals insisted that I check out the beach. So, on my first visit to Mexico’s East coast, I boarded a local bus. The beach in Tulum is lined with resorts, boutiques, cafes, and art installations; I took my time meandering along the street and observing the city’s unique aesthetic.

It was during this wander that I first encountered the work of Daniel Popper, a 3D-multimedia artist who specializes in larger-than-life feminine statues. After this trip, I sought out Daniel Popper’s astonishing works at music festivals, a conservatory in Vegas, and a pop-up exhibit in a Chicago arboretum.

This installation served as my gateway to the white sand beaches of Tulum, and I stepped through the statue’s heart space towards my first glimpse of the Caribbean Sea. Almost immediately, I was greeted by a spritely vendor with a massive load of fresh coconuts.

“Veinte pesos!” he offered, and I couldn’t resist. I watched with glee as he picked out my coconut and hacked off the top with his machete. He plopped a straw into the hole, handed it to me, and quickly took off down the coast, his coconuts clanging cacophonously as his feet plodded against the sand. I settled into a resort chair—though I wasn’t a paying guest, no one seemed to mind my presence—and sipped the sweet coconut water.

After my refreshment break, I set off down the beach in search of a yoga studio. Tulum is notorious among Western yogis for its selection of top-tier yoga classes and instructors, so I was eager to check out the scene for myself. Indeed, I found several options within a half-mile stretch, ranging from sound baths to Yoga Nidra to Kundalini. I eventually opted for a familiar offering: slow vinyasa flow. The studio was breathtaking: a free-standing room on the beach with floor to ceiling glass windows and a pristine view of the ocean. I was the first to arrive, and I enjoyed the ambience for several minutes in blissful solace.

When the class time rolled around, the instructor appeared to let me know that I was the only one enrolled! We chatted for a bit before beginning my inadvertent private lesson. I was surprised to learn that my yoga teacher was not from the Yucatan Peninsula, nor would she be showcasing a unique Tulum style of yoga—rather, she had grown up and completed her yoga training in California. Nonetheless, her class provided exactly what I had been craving: a dynamic yet gentle sequence of postures and transitions, enhanced by the sound of waves lapping against the shore.

After savasana, I thanked the instructor, and we shared tidbits from our respective teacher trainings. I learned that she, like me, had traveled to Tulum in her early 20’s and fallen in love with the slow-paced, ethereal atmosphere. When her husband received an offer to relocate for work, she was all too happy to leave her life in the States and open her own studio in Quintana Roo. Our conversation eventually lulled, and I prepared to bid her farewell. As I rolled up my mat, though, I hesitated. I had an inquiry for her, though I did not know whether she would have an answer for me. Worse: I did not know whether my inquiry might be seen as tacky or even offensive. I chewed my lip for a moment, contemplating. Finally:

“Do you know where I might find a plant medicine ceremony?”

I expected a grimace, an eyeroll, or a gasp, but I received no such response. Instead, the instructor paused for a moment, deep in thought, and then said,

“Try the organic wheatgrass smoothie stand.”

So, that’s how I ended up on the roadside, clinging desperately to a blind faith in my yoga instructor’s vague directions. This was a new experience for me, and I had known coming in that I wouldn’t find a clear list of options on Tripadvisor. Even still, I was a bit unsettled by the prospect of approaching a random smoothie vendor and asking them for mind-altering drugs. Would they scorn me? Would they laugh? Would they turn me into the local authorities? I truly had no idea what to expect.

At the ripe age of twenty-one, I was no stranger to the world of psychoactive substances. I grew up in Colorado, where recreational cannabis was legalized just after my 14^th birthday. By the time I went to study abroad in Mexico, I was a certified psychonaut, but I had never undergone a psychedelic experience with a guide, save for the rare occasions when my roommate happened to be home and offered, jokingly, to be my “trip sitter.” I was, as drug users go, quite responsible; I was careful to always assess the risks of each substance, measure my dose meticulously, and prepare a safe setting in the event of a bad trip. I had never seen a need for a guide. However, I had journeyed to Tulum seeking a spiritual release, and I knew that this city would be the perfect place to dip my toes into the waters of sacramental drug use.

After another ten minutes of walking aimlessly, I encountered the first marker of my destination: a hand-painted wooden sign with the words “Vegan Organic Wheatgrass Smoothies.” The smoothie stand itself was only a few meters off the road, a quaint wooden hut with a roof of dried palm fronds, nestled within a lush garden of tropical plants. I approached hesitantly, still not knowing what or how to ask for what I desired. Luckily, I didn’t have to—a middle-aged Mexican woman behind the bar flashed me a comforting smile and handed me a menu. Internally, I facepalmed—duh, I should order something, I thought to myself. In feeble Spanish, I informed the woman about my vegetarianism and asked for her recommendation. She pointed to one of the specials, barbecue jackfruit tacos, and I nodded eagerly in agreement.

Within minutes, the woman had served me a stunning plate of plant-based tacos, complete with freshly squeezed orange juice and their house salsa. This meal was a welcome sight, for I had already learned that Mexican cuisine is not the most vegetarian friendly. Back in Merida, I had repeatedly told my host mom “no como carne!” (“I don’t eat meat!”), only for her to serve me ham sandwiches and arroz con pollo. She was such a gracious host that I was happy to eat whatever she offered me, but I was incredibly grateful to finally have some animal-free dietary options.

As I savored my meal, I basked in the beauty of the surrounding garden and worked up the nerve to ask for what I had come for. At last:

“Do you know where I could find a plant medicine ceremony?” I gulped my orange juice nervously, awaiting her response.

“Ah, si,” she replied immediately. “Go talk to the man in there.” Much to my surprise, she pointed to a small building behind me.

I quickly finished my meal, walked over to the modest hotel, and repeated my question to the man behind the desk. He confirmed that I was in the right place. Before I could even process what happened, we agreed that I would come back the following morning at 7 am—“just as the sun is rising,” the man said, “it will be beautiful.”

I went through the rest of that afternoon and evening in a state of slight disbelief and gripping fear. What had I signed up for? Should I even trust this man? Was I putting myself in danger by agreeing to this? In hindsight, my concerns were perfectly valid, and perhaps I should have asked more questions before I paid the man to reserve my ceremony (a measly $100 USD for what I perceived as a once-in-a-lifetime cultural experience). Even still, I am glad that I calmed myself and embraced the unknown. The next morning, I awoke before first light and tiptoed around the hostel to avoid waking my roommates. At 6:30, I set off down the same road I had walked the previous day, this time knowing confidently where I was headed.

Just as the sun’s light began to peek over the horizon, I arrived at the hotel and greeted my facilitator, whose name I learned was Valtteri. He led me through the garden behind the hotel towards a lone tipi nestled within the lush vegetation. He then introduced me to his assistant and invited me to get comfortable amongst the many blankets and pillows laid out on the tipi floor. He began to explain the medicine offering: 5-MEO-DMT, not a plant medicine after all, but in fact the venom of the toad known as Bufo Alvarius, which is native to the Mexican Sonoran Desert. My heart was racing out of my chest, but he spoke slowly and steadily, and I began to feel calm by listening to his voice. I tried to focus on my breath in an attempt at getting my heartrate under control.

Valtteri asked me if I had ever experienced the toad medicine, and I shook my head. He smiled knowingly but did not say anything; I imagine he did not want to create any expectations for me. Instead, he explained the method of ingestion. Though he gave clear and concise instructions, I could feel my stomach twisting into knots. What if I did it wrong? What if I missed a step? What’s the worst thing that can happen?

My facilitator did not give me time to dwell on my anxieties. He immediately launched into a guided meditation focused on the breath. Those ten minutes felt like an eternity. I attempted to clear my mind and listen only to the sensations in my body, which were clouded by the overbearing thump-thump of my heart in my chest. My logical mind fought for dominance against my emotional center, and I tried desperately to suppress my panic without tensing my body or losing the rhythm of my breath. Finally, Valtteri asked me to open my eyes. His assistant handed him a small glass pipe, which he promptly held up to my mouth.

“Breathe in,” he instructed, and began to light the pipe. I did as I was told. Almost immediately, a burning sensation erupted in my lungs. My years of smoking weed could never have prepared me for that moment—I wanted to exhale, to choke, to cry out, but Valtteri said firmly, “keep going.” I did as I was told. I inhaled until my lungs were full of red-hot air, swirling and smoldering and igniting my airways. I inhaled for a thousand years and felt my chest imploding with the shape of smoke, my blistering breath combusting inside me. And then, when I thought I couldn’t possibly inhale anything more, Valtteri said, “hold it in.” I did as I was told.

I must have exhaled at some point. I vaguely remember seeing a cloud of wispy smoke dissipating before me. I believe Valtteri guided me through one more inhale, though my memory of the ingestion disintegrates into conjecture after the first hit. Valtteri’s voice began to sound very distant, as though I was falling down a deep well and he was calling to me from the top. At some point, the blazing fire in my lungs faded away, overtaken by the more pressing concern of my rapidly dissolving consciousness. The edges of my periphery blurred, followed soon after by my entire field of vision. I began to vibrate.

At first, the vibrations were gentle and low, emanating from deep within my gut. Then, the vibrations grew stronger and stronger, crescendoing in a symphony of high-frequency tremors that resonated outwards from my being and caused the earth beneath me to quake and tremble violently. Just as the pulsations arrived at a deafening throb, I heard Valtteri speak to me from someplace far away: “lay back.”

I did as I was told, and I immediately slipped into the warm embrace of the visionary realm.

My blurry, precarious grip on reality exploded into unprecedented clarity. I was suddenly drenched in the full spectrum of color, swimming in a pool of blinding saturation. Every shade of the rainbow splintered into fractals simultaneously. Each hue gave way to a new shape in succession: circles, stars, spirals, supernovas. They blended into one another seamlessly, creating a harmonious cinema of kaleidoscopic beauty.

I was no longer in my body. I was not merely a detached observer; I was not separate from the kaleidoscope at all. Rather, I was careening down its center, being absorbed and resorbed by a boundless pattern of pigmented particles. My limbs, my torso, my head, all these parts of me had ceased to exist, and I rode the current of colors like the high soprano of a violin, ringing amidst its counterparts in a bright orchestral swell. The energy within my prismatic world surged and softened, crested and calmed. I floated above it all.

Magenta rings shattered into lavender mandalas; rust-colored rhombi fragmented into scarlet diamonds; cobalt crosses fractured into dazzling lime angles. Each mosaic ruptured into one more breathtaking than the last, weaving a never-ending polychromatic tapestry. I had never seen such color before. Formless, limitless, I traveled through the tunnel of my fulminating consciousness.

Time did not exist here. I was wholly immersed in my altered consciousness, unaware of my physical surroundings. Eventually, I was ejected from the kaleidoscope into a realm inhabited by prismatic nature spirits. These creatures were equally as colorful as their polygonal predecessors, but they resided within the third, fourth, and fifth dimensions, shifting between planes and challenging my depth perception. At one moment within reach, and the next light years away. Rainbow-colored elephants zoomed in and out of focus with the vibrant contrast of a neatly lined color-by-number painting. Jungle cats folded symmetrically along their mid-lines, their whiskers aligning with perfect precision, only to stretch and elongate, abstracting and deconstructing through countless reflections. Polyhedral parrots, geckos, frogs, and fish stacked themselves on top of one another, forming infinite totems that stretched beyond my comprehension.

The final spirit was that of a lone wolf, crisply defined in all his chromaticity. He dominated my mind’s eye, strong and stationary. Rather than standing opposite the wolf, it seemed as though his face was presented to me: a page in a book from which I could not and did not want to look away. I stared at him; he stared at me.

And then: white. My awareness was subsumed by a blanket of heavenly nothingness. A choir of angelic voices rang out in unison. In this blank space, I had no body, nor thoughts, nor feelings. I simply existed. Unfiltered sunlight poured in from all directions, purifying and crystallizing the emptiness. I remained there for quite a while, basking in a sensation of peace that I had never before experienced.

Upon opening my eyes, I first saw the blue day sky through the open top of the tipi. The sun was fully risen now, indicating that some amount of time must have passed during my ceremony, though I had no conception of how much. The sounds of my surroundings came next: the gentle yet steady percussive thrum of Valtteri’s assistant as he struck his drum and chanted in Spanish; the wind whistling outside the tipi; my own breath. I slowly became aware of my own body on the earth, bolstered comfortably by the pillows and blankets onto which I had collapsed during ingestion. I felt my bones first: my hips, spine, and skull pressing against the firm ground. Then, slowly, I regained sensation in my soft tissues, felt my muscles reawakening, sent subtle movements into my extremities. My vision gradually sharpened, and I began to remember where I was and how I had gotten there. I rocked my head from side to side and swirled my tongue around my mouth. I returned to reality.

I pressed up to a seat and looked to Valtteri, who was smiling softly.

“Lost track of space and time, hm?” he asked with slight amusement. I nodded, bewildered. The details of my journey were already beginning to fade from my memory, but the integration of what I had learned would take many months to follow. I could only begin to process my visions in those first few moments after reemergence.

We took our time exiting the tipi, as my legs had seemingly forgotten how to work. Valtteri wished me luck and sent me deeper into the garden, where another member of the hotel staff was preparing a fresh vegetarian breakfast for me. Having just encountered a multitude of divine beings, eating was the last thing on my mind, but indeed my body was grateful for the nourishment. I ate slowly, chewing each bite a hundred times as I lost myself in recollections of my trip. And then, when I had finished my meal, I simply got up and showed myself out.

I felt as thought I was putting my human suit back on and resuming the mundane act of theatrical imitation. My head reeled with everything I had seen; my perspective on life felt forever changed; and yet, I had emerged in the same physical form, a mere 45 minutes later. I had no choice – I went on living my life, having captured a glimpse of the otherworldly forces that lie beyond the veil.

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!

Holi Pilgrimage

Of all the Hindu festivals celebrated throughout South Asia, Holi is by far the most well-known globally. Every March, children and elderly alike gather in the streets to toss colored powders and celebrate the turning of the seasons. The result is visually striking—smiling communities and sacred sites drenched in every hue of the rainbow. When I traveled to India in the Spring of 2019, I knew that the Festival of Colors would be an event to remember, but I had absolutely no idea what to expect.

I lived in Hyderabad, Telangana during my time in India. As the fifth largest city in the subcontinent, Hyderabad was well connected to other major cities via airways and railroads, and my study abroad group did a fair bit of interstate travel using these methods. However, much of India remains rural and largely disparate from urban centers. According to a census conducted in 2020, more than 65% of India’s population still lives in rural areas. These areas are not so easily accessible by the convenient, direct forms of transportation that I am used to.

One such area is Vrindavan, Uttar Pradesh in North India. Mentioned in many Hindu texts as the childhood home of the God Krishna, this city has rich mythological significance. Krishna is the 8^th avatar of Vishnu, the preserver deity in the Hindu holy trinity (trimurti). He is the god of love, protection, compassion, and he features prominently in the Bhagavad Gita. This text is excerpted from the Hindu epic, the Mahabharata, and serves as a foundation for devotional Yoga practices. It is standard reading for Yogis, just as the Holy Bible is for Christians and the Qur’an is for Muslims. The festival Holi celebrates Krishna’s divine love for his devotees, his kingdom, and especially his consort, Radha. The pair (commonly abbreviated to, simply, Krishna Radha) represent the union of masculine and feminine energies, the cosmic combination of spirit and material, of reality and illusion, the complete constitution of the universe. After puja, or worship, of the two deities, devotees celebrate their union by smearing themselves with color. Nowhere is this practice more vibrant than Vrindavan, the historical setting of Krishna’s notorious romances.

Naturally, I thought, what better place to experience Holi for the first time than in the district where it all began? Georgia, my roommate from Ohio University, was studying in Thailand at the time, so she planned to meet me in Vrindavan. We each recruited some friends to join us, and we booked our plane tickets. The gang coming from Hyderabad consisted of my friends Jonny, Allison, Kelly, Hunter, and myself. The Bangkok crew included Georgia, JJ, Ejayah, and Celine. Little did we know that the travel to and from the festival would amount to a religious experience in and of itself!

The first leg of our journey was an Uber. We routinely ordered Ubers to our hostel on the Hyderabad Central University campus. Admittedly, we also routinely encountered issues with Indian Uber, but it was our main mode of transport out of campus. We had a 7 am flight to catch, so I ordered an Uber ahead of time to arrive at 4 am. In the dark of the early morning, we gathered soundlessly in the lobby with our strategically packed backpacks. We waited. And we waited. No Ubers arrived, and we began to panic. No one was awake; no one would accept our last-minute request.

Just as we had accepted the inevitability of missing our flight, a silver SUV pulled up in front of the hostel gates. We piled in without asking too many questions. This tardiness should have been the first indicator of divine influence in our travels. Later, an inspection of my Uber reservation would reveal that our vehicle had been cancelled due to lack of availability. Somewhat miraculously, our chauffeur had been hired to transport an entirely different group to the airport. He had mistakenly arrived a day early and was lucky to find us waiting for him.

We made it to the Hyderabad airport just in the nick of time to have our bags x-rayed and our boarding passes approved. We rode an airport bus onto the tarmac to board a plane destined for Delhi, the nearest major city to Vrindavan. Our flight was rather uneventful, but Georgia’s group was not so fortunate—they had booked a Thailand-based budget airline called NokScoot, which resulted in a series of strange events that they recounted to us later. First, they nearly missed their flight due to an unannounced departure change. Somehow, a NokScoot employee located them in the airport to alert them that their plane was about to leave. Then, after boarding the plane, they were surprised to find that all the other passengers seemed to know one another, and none of them seemed to want to stay in their assigned seats.

After witnessing a takeoff game of musical chairs, Georgia and JJ tried to escape the unyielding attention of a man who kept hopping seats until he ended up in the same row as them. Halfway through the flight, a persistent “ding-dong” sound began to emanate from the plane. Upon asking a flight attendant, they learned that a passenger had fallen asleep on his call button, and the attendants either could not or would not wake him to silence the noise. NokScoot Airlines has since been liquidated, leaving us to wonder about this odd flight experience for all of eternity.

The Hyderabad gang landed in Delhi at 10 am, but our voyage was far from over. We hopped an underground rail that connected the farthest terminals of the massive Delhi airport to one another. Whether we even needed to ride this train, we’re still not sure. That said, we ended up in the wrong part of the airport—rail maps were relentlessly confusing, and the staff seemed to have no idea how to direct us. Panic began to set in again as we realized we had less than an hour to catch our bus. We made the collective decision to abandon the Delhi Metro and instead flagged down a rickshaw driver just outside the airport.

Negotiating rates with rickshaw drivers was generally challenging given our…ahem… aggressively white appearance. I struggled to communicate prices with my beginner Hindi, and this task was made no less difficult by the incredible vagueness of Indian addresses. Our bus tickets instructed us to meet at “Sec 37 Indian Oil Petrol Pump.” I had hoped that this location might become evident as we approached the cross-streets, but to no avail. Annoyed with our indecisiveness, the rickshaw driver dumped us in a plaza lined with rusty buses. He shrugged helplessly at us as he drove away.

With less than 20 minutes until our bus departure time, we frantically compared our tickets to each bus’s sign. Several drivers stopped us along the way, insistent that we were looking for their bus, and there was truly no way of knowing which one we had purchased tickets for. They all seemed to be going the same route, or at least, that’s what the drivers told us. At one point, Jonny completely gave up the chase and asked a stranger to light his bidi, a type of Indian cigarette. We stood around in a huddle and puffed for a bit. It seemed like the only thing we knew how to do in that moment.

Indian bus drivers continued to hound us until we made the arbitrary decision to follow a man and his young child onto a bus. This one seemed as random as any of the others, but the driver accepted our tickets and allowed us to sit, so we did so. At first, we each had our own seat along the back row. At each stop, however, more and more people piled on. About an hour in, we were shoulder-to-shoulder, sitting eight people in a row designed for five.

The bus was unbearably muggy and warm, owing in no small part to the ever-growing crowd in the aisles. I tried to focus on breathing in fresh air through the 1 inch opening in the window. As we drove farther away from the city, however, the roads became increasingly rough, and dust soon began to infiltrate my airways, catalyzing a full-on asthma attack. I wheezed, crushed against the side of the bus, being tossed up and down by the poor suspension. After what felt like forever, I drifted into a restless sleep, my skull bouncing against the dirty window glass.

I can’t have been asleep long because our ride was only meant to be three hours. I awoke suddenly to a concerned Indian man speaking to me in Hindi. My friends stared at me helplessly. Looking distinctly more native than the rest of my American group, I often found myself acting as an ambassador in a language I had only just begun to study. I knew right away that something was wrong—otherwise, I would not be fielding this stranger’s concerns.

“Aapko kahaa ja ruhe hain?” (“where are you going?”) the man asked.

“Vrindavan ko,” I mumbled, still disoriented from my reduced capacity to breathe. His eyes grew wide.

“Vrindavan? Nahee.”

After some back and forth, I deciphered the problem: we had missed our stop. The stranger alerted the bus driver, who pulled off to the side of the road rather hastily and allowed us to unload. I had no idea how all four of my travel buddies had missed the memo, even if the announcement had been in Hindi. Nor did I know how this strange man knew our mistake before we did. Nevertheless, we owed it to the stranger. Without his help, we would have ended up very lost in rural Uttar Pradesh.

“Dhanyavaad!” I thanked him as the bus pulled away. Then, I realized another problem. Even with the stranger’s help, we were very lost in rural Uttar Pradesh. The bus had dropped us on the side of a quiet highway overpass, and none of us had cell service. There didn’t seem to be any towns or cities for miles.

This time, we didn’t have a chance to panic, as our second guardian angel appeared out of thin air. He was a young man with piercing eyes and perfect English, which was even more miraculous than his inexplicable arrival. He helped us down a rocky hillside with our luggage, then hailed another rickshaw and sent us on our way. This rickshaw, our SEVENTH vehicle of the day, was a full-on party tuk-tuk, equipped with lavish décor, multi-colored string lights, and a bumping subwoofer. For the first time during our travels in India, the driver passed us the aux. We played our tunes obnoxiously loud as we careened down the bumpy rural roads, waving at amused pedestrians and trying our hardest to enjoy the thirteenth hour of our journey. Keep in mind that I was still holding a crippling asthma attack at bay.

Around six pm, we rolled into the city of Vrindavan, where festivities for the eve of Holi were in full swing. Many residents had already brought out their colored powders and were enthusiastic to get the Americans in on the action. In our open-sided rickshaw, we were subject to rowdy hands reaching for our clothes and body parts. At one point, we came to a full stop in traffic and a man stepped out of his driver’s seat to take a picture of us. I tried to tell him no, in both English and Hindi, and he ignored me, coming closer and closer with each snapshot. Frankly, I was fed up. I slapped the phone out of his hand as we drove off. Not my proudest moment, but I was just beginning to learn how to establish physical boundaries with persistent Indian men.

Shortly thereafter, the rickshaw driver pulled off to the side of the road and nodded to us to get out. We did, obediently, before realizing that we still had no idea where we were. Much like the bus stop, the address to our AirBnB was vague, accompanied by an equally vague photo of a townhome complex that seemed to match every building in the neighborhood. The rickshaw driver sped off as soon as he had cash in his hand, leaving us to wander the nondescript streets with our bulky luggage in tow.

I’m not sure how long we wandered. All I know is that we eventually made it to our destination. Using the AirBnB listing, we located the neighboring complex, where was ran into our host, Parul. Parul kindly led us to our rental home, brought us tiffins of curry, and left us alone to rest and recover from the treacherous trek. Surprisingly, Georgia’s group had also made it to the AirBnB, and we were relieved to find them napping when we arrived. We hugged, introduced the two groups to one another, and swapped stories about our equally absurd adventures.

Despite our difficulties, we came to realize that the long road to Vrindavan was half of the Holi experience. Pilgrimage plays a large role in many Hindu traditions; devotees travel long distances and endure the accompanying hardships to prove that their god’s grace is worth traversing the world for. Especially in a country like India, it requires great dedication to take time off work, travel to religious sites, and practice rites in a foreign community. The expedition itself is meant to bring the individual closer to god by challenging the convenience of the individual’s mode of worship.

Indeed, we were awe-inspired by the perseverance required to reach Krishna’s childhood home, and even more grateful for the experience because we knew how fortunate we were to have made it. We felt that Krishna himself had sent avatars to guide us on our journey, for there was no way we could have succeeded without the help of the mysterious NokScoot employee, the strange man on the bus, or the kind English speaker on the highway overpass. To this day, I suspect divine influence when I think about the number of obstacles we overcame on the way.

On the day of Holi, we played with a fervor akin to lifelong devotees of Krishna. We rode around in a caravan of rickshaws and gleefully threw colors in the air, all the while trying to avoid the dreaded buckets of street water which raucous boys aimed at our faces. We visited the major temples in the city, including Katyayani Shakti Peeth, a mythologically significant site that is rumored to house ringlets of hair from the Hindu Goddess herself. We drank bhaang (a sacramental yogurt drink made from cannabis leaves), ate chaat, and were merry.

One part enjoyment, another part pure terror, Holi was the most fun we would never want to have again. I can’t say I would ever go back to Vrindavan for the infamous festival, but I would still recommend it to other travelers who are comfortable traveling long distances on a wide variety of vehicles. It was an unforgettable experience, one that undoubtedly strengthened my Yogic resolve. Personally, I am not a Krishna worshipper, but I experienced the cosmic love and connection during my Holi pilgrimage

Tag: Yoga