I’ve spent this weekend at the world famous Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health.
With its silent breakfasts, farm to table meals, candle-lit shrines, and slow walking, contemplative guests, the place doesn’t exactly match my aesthetic.
I’m sort of like a bull in a China shop here.
A man without a country.
A misplaced, misbegotten vagabond.
I suspect that I’m the only person here armed with a Diet Coke at all times. I definitely swear more than anyone I have met so far. And I was the only person in yesterday’s sunrise yoga class wearing jeans and a tee shirt.
And yet I’ve had an excellent weekend here, teaching storytelling and performing in their main theater. And it appears that I will be back three times next year, including a weekend alongside Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray, Love, another weekend of storytelling like this last one, and a week-long advanced storytelling workshop in the summer.
Somehow this place and I have found a means of coexisting. I think we may even like each other.
Still, it may come as a surprise to those who know me well to hear that yesterday morning, I sat atop a rock on a hill in the early morning cold and meditated as the sun rose over the hills.
While I meditate every morning, it’s normally done on the couch.
Lest you fear that I have lost myself entirely and become something I am not, I followed up this period of meditation with the trip to one of my favorite places in the world, forgoing the world class cuisine of Kripalu for something more fitting of my personal aesthetic.
