Yoga is a whole new world for the uninitiated.
Quite why I decided to give this 2500-year-old Hindu mystical mind and body routine a try is a mystery to me as much as its ancient Sanskrit terms like adho mukha svanasana — the downward facing dog.
My epiphany arrived, as all things seem to do these days — via the digital universe.
When a text from an old friend appeared on my phone offering a try-out session for a men’s yoga class, a little light bulb inside me clicked on. Call it an a-ha moment or a hunch. It wasn’t a lightning bolt from Vishnu; it was more like a vibe thing, a feeling in the waters.
It may have been the pull of the moon on the Ganges, or maybe it was the reoccurring twinge in my lower back, but I thought, what the hell, why not?
I’ve seen yoga classes advertised, and in my previous life as a journalist, I’ve seen people striking what looked like excruciating poses on the foreshore of Victoria Park Lake — that’s about the extent of my yoga knowledge.
There is also an embedded cultural moment in my Beatles memory of the Fab Four sitting in the lotus position in a faraway place called Rishikesh sometime in 1968. At the time, my parents and the Queen said the loveable moptops were going “weird” after smoking pot.
I thought it was weird, too, but at the same, it was also cool and intriguing.
In the late ’70s and ’80s, yoga became associated in the popular mind with New Age thinking, which vaguely connected Mexican Shamanism to ancient Hindu gods, astrology, crystals, UFOs and moon dancing. The technical term for this new religion was ‘mumbo jumbo’.
Like all things new and strange, yoga was ridiculed until some bits were separated and seen as useful ways to nurture and protect the self in an increasingly fast and hyperventilating world.
Today, yoga has become mainstream to the extent it is used in corporate retreats — even if it is seen as a tool to generate team bonding, company loyalty and ultimately, more company profits.
But it is marketed as the domain of women. The majority of websites show women going through the routines of breathing, stretching and bending. Perhaps this is because women have always nurtured their bodies and minds more than men. Perhaps this is because of childbirth or the old sexist trope of physical beauty as power.
Anyway, I was intrigued by a yoga class for men. I didn’t realise there were enough men in Shepparton who wore wristbands and patchouli oil to form a yoga class. Because I’m a man and easily distracted by gadgets and coffee, I turned up late, of course.
The course instructor was a woman whom I later found out was called a yogini. She asked me to take off my shoes before entering the classroom. This raised my stress level because of a large bunion on my left foot and threadbare socks.
When I entered the room, I could smell peppermint oil and hear an Indian flute and running water. My stress levels hit another upward notch.
About eight blokes were lying on mats facing away from me when the yogini introduced me. They all turned around, and some wag said: “It’s all right, Johnno — you can keep your hat on”.
My stress levels dropped, and I realised I had a connection to every bloke in the room. These weren’t old hippy space cadets — they were businessmen, mostly retired, reasonably fit, slightly awkward, as most blokes are in strange situations, and curious. In fact, they were just like me.
After we did the downward-facing dog, the cat-cow, the warrior and some deep breathing, we all felt relaxed enough to go for a coffee, where we talked about cars and money. There was not a word mentioned about the strange new things we had just done. Some things never change.
Next week, we’re doing the burrito. I might take my hat off for that.
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