This is in response to the feedback I received on my last piece: Sucker Punched! 14 Ways Yoga Changed Me When I Wasn’t Paying Attention. {Adult}

There’s a lot of chatter out there about what yoga is, and what it isn’t.

Lately, I’m noticing people getting awfully testy when you threaten their beliefs about the ancient, transcending practice of yoga. Have you noticed? I can’t help but wonder what all the fuss is about.

As a writer, I know how powerful words can be, and I know they can also be misunderstood, mangled and twisted into a horrifying mess of flaming dog poop. So let’s keep it simple. I can sum it up in six words, but that wouldn’t be much fun to start off with, would it? So hey, disco down and check out the show.

Yoga is an honest offering from the heart. Yoga isn’t voodoo, the work of the devil or the gateway to hell.

Yoga isn’t graffiti, a hangover or a snuff film. It doesn’t have a bad attitude, and it’s never cranky. It’s a yellow brick road toward liberation in the emerald horizon.

Yoga makes you feel alive, like a stroll in the rain. It isn’t a quick fix, or a glory hole in a truck stop bathroom.

Yoga takes it’s time. It’s chess, baby, not checkers.

It’s witchy. It’s a sly little minx that’ll sneak up while you’re not watching and throw glitter on your jaded heart.

Yoga is a journey, but I really dislike that word. Same goes for words like odyssey, pilgrimage and process. Let’s call it a kaleidoscope; it’s a multi-colored, LSD-inspired Beatles song.

Yoga never lies, cheats, gets angry, talks shit behind your back or shows up drunk as a sailor to your wedding.

“I think I’ll go to yoga, then blow up innocent Americans in an act of terrorism,” said no one ever.

Yoga has a heart, like a home run with the bases loaded. It’s ballsy, like a New Yorker. It’ll take you to another sweet, spectacular plane of existence, like a ticket to paradise.

It’s brave enough to run with the bulls, gutsy enough to sing out a Carpenters song in the shower and passionate enough to make out like teenagers in the pouring rain.

Yoga is everywhere. It doesn’t hide like a pet dragon under the stairs.

It doesn’t talk trash, gossip, belittle anyone or call people names, even if they’re talking smack, gossiping, belittling someone or calling people names. Let’s stop the slut bashing, the trash talking and the bullying.

Yoga is not the ability to take your left leg and wrap behind your head in Eka Pada Sirsasana. But it is the tears stinging your eyes when you find yourself in a pose you never thought you could do.

It tells the truth, and never yells.

Yoga is life and death. And life and death again. And life and death again. And life and—you get it. 

Yoga is you, me, the stars, the moon and the epic sky. It’s easy like Sunday morning.

What’s beautiful to you? That’s what yoga is, too.

Isn’t that part of what we love about yoga, to recognize and acknowledge beauty all around? I say, let there be peace and light as far as you can imagine. Let everyone get married, let people smoke pot and let the Church Of Satan do what they want. Let everyone be happy and free.

For me, I can sum it up in six words, Hemingway style: Yoga Saved My Life. Namaste, Baby.

What are your six words?

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Editor: Bryonie Wise

Photo: elephant archives