Absurd Ashtaga

I am a serious student of Ashtanga yoga, and have been for over eight years. I consistently practice six days a week, three to four of those at the Ashtanga Yoga School studio, where I spend between an hour and a half and two hours bending and sweating, the other days at home, where I usually shorten my practice to around forty-five minutes or so.

On studio days, I get out of bed at 5:30 in the morning and even when it’s raining like today, ride my bike about a mile and a half to begin by 6:00. At home, I’ll often sleep in a bit, but I still try to start by 6:45 at the latest.

The practice itself is difficult for me; it requires a good deal of jumping and stretching and if the room is warm (as it usually is at the studio), I’m soaked in sweat by halfway through.

And yet, day after day (except Sundays), I continue. I’ve practiced sick, hungover, with a sprained wrist (twice), a tweaked neck (on several occasions), a tight back, sore knees, on vacation, at philosophy conferences, by myself, with a group of over 200, in the woods, on the floor of the bathroom at a casino, before my father’s and mother’s memorial services, and besides the hundreds of hours I’ve expended doing poses, I’ve also spent on the order of eight to ten thousand dollars taking classes, workshops, and going on retreats—and this without ever yet making it to India.

Why?

I’m not sure. Often, I find myself thinking that the whole thing is totally absurd: I could be sleeping, cuddling in a warm bed with my wife or and catching a much-needed forty winks more.

It’s got to be more than just the exercise and yet, I don’t entirely buy the underlying philosophy of yoga as a means of liberation.

Were I truly liberated, I wouldn’t be getting up tomorrow at 5;30, would I?