At the yoga studio I go to in Palo Alto, California, annoyingly skinny people gyrate to Justin Bieber. They come to class in groups of two or three, their fit bodies clad in Lululemon, and their conversations filled with phrases like "boys loveeee girls who do yoga." They leave class with glistening backs and shaking arms, swinging their metal water bottles at their sides with conviction.
For years I thought yoga was a frivolous spectacle. When my sister Virginia announced she was going to Bali to become a yoga teacher, I imagined fun and fit twenty– somethings lying poolside, sipping out of coconuts and lightly stretching. I dedicated my summer savings to joining her on the month–long yoga teacher training, which I thought would take place in a la–la–land of dancing elephants and monkeys. They say Bali is Australia's Hawaii, so I naturally assumed I would run into the Hemsworth brothers in the Denpasar airport. Moreover, I anticipated being so zen after my month of yoga that I would drop both my black crop tops for patterned harem pants and out of Penn to stay in Asia.
When August rolled around, Virginia and I embarked upon our 200–hour yoga teacher training. We moved into a hut in the jungle with ants, mosquitoes and a lizard named Jerry. We surrounded ourselves with eclectic randos. Our yoga teachers were quite the duo: one self–identified as Yoda and refused to wear colors other than white, the other was a raging moon–child who wore leaves as earrings. Both woke up at 4 a.m. to floss their nostrils. The other people in the program were nomads, traveling indefinitely and teaching yoga to make ends meet. One man introduced himself as a famous icon in the vegan–yogi Instagram community. One woman ran around in various states of undress, chiming her singing bowl and giving unsolicited Thai massages.
We did eight hours of yoga each day, dodged rabid dogs, chanted mantras, planted rice, fed elephants, studied Sanskrit and read yoga sutras. It was unusual, intense and nothing like the month–long vacation I had in mind. Despite my many misadventures, it was on that island of misfit toys that I discovered what yoga means to me.
I had originally planned to call this article "Yoga School Dropout" and discuss my failings as a yogi, like twitching uncontrollably during morning meditation and not being a gluten–free vegan. But against the odds, I passed my teaching test and became a certified teacher of ashtanga vinyasa yoga. Ashtanga yoga translates to "eight–limb yoga" and its general principles resonate with me. Ashtangis believe yoga isn't about looking good in yoga pants or impressing some guy. Yoga is about reaching samadhi, a state of ecstasy or divine bliss. There are eight limbs to getting there: ethical considerations, personal considerations, physical poses, breathwork, sensory withdrawal, concentration, meditation and oneness. By embracing all eight limbs, you can become your most blissful, yogic self.
Most people don't do yoga with the goal of reaching samadhi. Most people do yoga to become stronger, more flexible and more relaxed. Maybe they love the idea of yoga. Maybe they're in it for the Instagram. There's nothing wrong with that. But I think the most meaningful yoga goes inward, developing the mind as much as the body. Our yoga teachers ended every class by telling us to enjoy our bodies, enjoy our lives and be happy. To me it really is that simple.
One night in Bali, there was a huge storm. It was the kind of storm that only happens deep in the jungle—a torrential downpour, a chorus of monkeys and frogs, a stench of soaked flowers. The yoga shala seemed ready to collapse. I looked around and almost everyone was crying, curling into little balls at the tops of their mats. The song Asatoma played from the shala's speakers and right then, two large butterflies began circling above us. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. I bet samadhi feels a lot like that.
