Master Yogi, Yoga Master -- Devon, England

Rain pitter-patters against the glass. The house is silent except for the whining cat and my tip-tapping fingers click-clacking keys.

I'm finding that if I pay attention to what people say around this place, I can relax for the rest of March and not worry about my blog at all.

I only need to write down what I hear.

Harriet asked me to steam brussels sprouts, broccoli and cabbage for lunch. Reluctantly, I tossed the cruciferous veggies into the pot and lit the stove.

You had so much potential, I mourned over the savoy cabbage that could have been stuffed with rice, sultanas and almonds. The brussels sprouts that could have been sauteed in butter and then briefly broiled with parmesan cheese. The broccoli that could have been kept for a coconut curry with mushrooms and sprouts. What a waste... I covered the bland business and turned to face the other disaster.

Harriet had "bunged" my gorgeous Mediterranean pasta from the day before with a small portion of leftover cauliflower cheese and roasted potatoes.

I tried to keep my tears on the inside.

Why does she insist that mixing things together makes them taste better? 

I asked if I could prepare rosemary walnut crepes stuffed with butternut squash, apples and goat cheese that had been roasted in balsamic vinegar for dinner.

She told me I could bung together the leftover coleslaw with the Turkish leek dish with whatever remained of lunch to create a "delicious" soup.  

Why must it all be bunged? 

Darrell, Michael and I gathered around the kitchen table to eat our boring lunch. Harriet had gone into town to receive a shiatsu treatment, so she wasn't even around to join us.

Maybe she just didn't want to feel like she was missing out on anything, I thought as I stabbed a limp sprout. This is how you get your reputation of being nasty, I glumly eyed the vegetable. People have been rude enough to steam you. 

Darrell stalwartly scarfed down his lunch without a word of complaint. Michael slowly and steadily picked at the pieces. I ate a few sprouts and then drank my licorice tea.  
 
Darrell went off to work. Michael kept picking at pieces. I started cleaning the kitchen.

And Adam walked in.

The easygoing atmosphere in the room immediately changed. Michael and I have worked out a system wherein I ask most of the questions and he takes enough time thinking about the answers to eliminate all awkward silences. When conversation lulls, I simply assume that he's happily contemplating whether he found the pretty red butterfly or the pretty red butterfly found him. I don't feel compelled to say anything interesting nor do I feel pressured to keep my silence.

Harriet had described Adam to me as a "master yogi". If "master yogi" is synonymous with "lord of the awkward silence", then I would be in emphatic agreement with my skinny, eccentric host. Adam seems to move through space as if he's on a different plane. A level of awareness that creates a disconnect between his searching spirit and the rest of the world.

"I hope this is okay," I shamefully motioned to the bowl of steamed veggies, rice and salad. He pondered the overcooked rice (now mushy and sticking together), then looked up and regarded me with an expression that seemed to say, "do you not realize that the flavor of food is of little consequence in the pursuit of enlightenment?"

"It's fine," were the words that eventually came out of his mouth.

"umm... I'm glad," I went to the fridge and removed a bag of gone off apples to turn into sugar-free, gluten-free apple crumble.

Michael drank and tasted his tea. Adam ate without tasting his food. When the awkward silence reached an intolerable crescendo, I blurted out some innocuous questions/statements.

"So, Harriet said you do yoga. What style?"  I cast him a generous smile as I peeled a bruised apple.

"I don't like to think of practicing a specific style. I practice yoga."

"And how long have you been practicing?"

"Well, that's an interesting question," Adam looked up from his brown rice with the blank expression of "I'm only partially here, you know". "Do you mean in this life?"

"Uhh..." I stumbled, wondering how my simple question had ended up going down the reincarnation route. "Yeah. Yeah, let's start with this life."

"Do you mean," his blankness deepened, "the physical aspect of yoga?"

"Yes, the physical aspect. How long have you been practicing the physical aspect of yoga in this life?"

"I have been practicing the physical aspect for ten years."

"Oh, wow. And what got you started?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, I started doing yoga when I was struggling with PTSD and needed something to help me feel safe. Was there a situation that brought you to yoga?"

"I had a revelation where I was told that I needed yoga to reach enlightenment. Michael," Adam turned on my friend who was quietly observing a butterfly perched on his large hand. "When you reached out to touch my awareness this morning, did you do that consciously or subconsciously?"

"...umm..." Michael slowly looked up at the master yogi. "hmmm."

"You seem to be a spiritually sensitive person," Adam persisted.

"I like to think of every person as a gift."

*slice, slice, CHOP* went my knife on the red cutting board.

*awkward, awkward, BIZARRE* went the silence in the kitchen.

"So which was it?" I admired Adam's tenacity. "Consciously or subconsciously?"

"Oh, umm... yeah. Yeah, I guess it was subconsciously. Yeah," Michael slowly looked down at his butterfly.

*slice, slice, CHOP*

"You practice... Vinyasa?" Adam reluctantly turned to me and distaste seemed to sour the blankness.

"Yes, it's a very physical form of yoga that's quite popular in America."

"When you say yoga, what do you mean?"

*CHOP*

"I'm at a point in my life where asanas satisfy most of my needs," I prepared myself for judgement from the yoga master, master yogi.

"Do you practice pranyama?"

"Vinyasa is all about movement with breath. Inhale, move. Exhale, move. Ujjayi breathing is a really important part of Vinyasa. So yes, I suppose I do practice pranyama."

"And do you eat meat?"

"Yes," I tried not to cringe. "Grains are difficult for me to digest, so meat is usually an important part of my diet. I can be vegetarian, but I have to work hard to not end up bloated and unhappy."

"What about you, Michael? Can you digest grains?"

"No, actually," these words in his gentle South African accent seemed to shock Adam back down to our plane of existence.

"Could be there's something wrong with your manipura chakra. Just a theory of course."

Adam cleared his dishes and I popped the crumble in the oven. Then Michael and I went for a refreshing walk up Little Hangman (next to Great Hangman next to Holdstone Down). 

I love backgardens with this kind of clutter.

 Harriet got stuck in traffic in Barnstaple, so she asked if I'd teach her class in the sanctuary upstairs.

"Okay. I'll make it something super restorative and simple," I thought back to the woman who'd broken down on Tuesday.

I am not prepared for tears. 

Harriet and my Dutch friend arrived at 18:45, just as the class was starting. I quickly rushed downstairs to give Maud a hug and invited her to join in on the 90-minute session.

"Now, man?"

"Umm... yes. I am teaching right now. You should come."

"But I'll look like an idiot."

"No you won't. And it doesn't matter, anyway. Come!" I employed my new-found Turkish imperative to persuade Maud.

"All right, man."

Man. That is such an American thing to say. 

The gentlest of gentle routines still overwhelmed some of the women (they had come to class with expectations of a ten-minute nap halfway through), but I think they found the style interesting. At least now they know what to avoid.

Maud and I walked down to the beach and guiltily sipped some Smirnoff by the waves. 

If only the master yogi, yoga master could see me now. And I ate Belgium chocolate before leaving the house. Worst. Yogi. Ever. But at least I don't look at people with blankness and I think that bad digestion can be cured by enzymes and eating properly... not balancing out your manipura chakra.