Opinion

On Church And Yoga

Well, looks like it’s time to throw in the towel on my culinary startup, Jackson Brownie. It was only a short-term lease of a kiosk at the mall, but I’m not gonna lie: I’m running on empty. Turns out today’s youngsters don’t remember who he is, while folks my age and older do but seem hesitant to eat him. Not that I had a choice. Though I thought I had implied consent to proceed, lawyers on both sides – who are anything but in love – say it’s I who am the pretender. The smart play now is to diligence legal risk before diving headlong into my next retail venture, Sammy Hagar Slacks.

I suppose I could get mad at this turn of events, but why? Some things just happen. When I type “Bach” into Spotify, I get Bachman-Turner Overdrive before the German composer. How many people could possibly want to hear Takin’ Care of Business? I can think of two, Bachman and Turner. Yet I stay positive, focusing on the fact that as far as I know, Air on the G String hasn’t become an adult film soundtrack, even though the title is kind of asking for it.

Besides, I learned a lot in my stint as an unlicensed celebrity confectioner. Turns out you’re pretty invisible on your kiosk stool. But for my placement by the mall’s directional “You Are Here” sign, I’d have gotten no traffic whatsoever. But sitting quietly astride my stool, I gained two insights into modern times. First, more women wear yoga pants than could possibly be doing yoga. I’m fine with this. And second, among those who do yoga – men and women alike – I’m picking up a hint of religiosity in their conversations. Faint, around perfectly laudable goals like mindfulness and being in the moment, but definitely there.

How this happened so fast is anybody’s guess. Sometimes when you don’t address things they take on an unstoppable momentum, like The Alan Parsons Project. It seems like it was only yesterday that yoga was practiced by four types of Americans: those who (i) had lived in California or Colorado (non-military), (ii) made a point always to wear hiking socks with sandals, (iii) were familiar with Tiger’s Milk nutrition products and (iv) stuck with George Harrison through his mysticism period. Nowadays it’s hard for a square like me to remember whether to plank or genuflect.

But I can’t leave things like that. This isn’t like empty trash cans at the curb: I can’t just draw others’ attention to the problem and then do nothing. But do what? Give a man a fish and he eats for a day, teach him to fish and he eats for a lifetime. Well I’m not doing either of those. There may have been a time and place when a side of fish made a nice gift, but that’s like 170 A.D. Judea. And teaching you how to fish sounds nice but surely is more trouble than it’s worth. What if I come all that way and all you want to do is sing Michael Row The Boat Ashore? No, I shall give you something far more practical, like that “You Are Here” sign in the mall. Below are rules that a couple that both prays together and splays together can easily understand and follow in these confusing times.

Okay For Church But Not For Yoga

Thanks be to God.

I seek validation – my lot in life is to be made perfect in You.

Is Vanessa seriously lector again? Please, God, anything but 1 Corinthians 13. Don’t smite her or anything on my account, but I just can’t take those clanging cymbals again. Not from her.

Okay For Yoga But Not For Church 

Thanks be to whoever told that Gregg Allman doppelgänger to wash his yoga mat. It seriously was starting to smell like Bigfoot’s hamper.

I seek validation – your lot in back was full, and I had to park at Trader Joe’s.

I am one with the universe, and whoever tells that skinny minnie Vanessa we don’t want to hear about her latest cleanse.

Okay For Both Yoga And Church

Do small things with great love.

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

(Quietly) Can you believe what Vanessa’s wearing today? What a tramp.

Okay For Neither Yoga Nor Church

Thanks be to yoga pants.

Grant me the serenity to stay conscious throughout hot yoga, the courage to request sixty minutes of downward dog, and the wisdom to place my mat directly behind Vanessa.

Daddy likey.

Following these rules of separation won’t necessarily draw you closer to God or strengthen your core. But it can’t hurt.