In the last few years, teaching yoga has become an ever growing trend, so much so that sooner or later there will be only teachers and no students! Just kidding of course, usually a good percentage of people who sign up to Yoga Teacher Training simply wish to improve their practice and maybe teach to family and friends.
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It’s almost impossible to grab the whole loot, there’s always someone stealing the Gioconda from your bag, leaving you speechless and stunned like a fish on a Big Mac hook. A plastic one. Oh Well. This is how it is. The beneficial effect of NYE spent at Cascina Bellaria got stuck in my heart.
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Today is the first day of our winter opening and I'm happy to start this new adventure with a group of 200 hour training members more numerous than the previous years. We’re approaching the end of the year and many things change and evolve and quite rightly so. For a while 'I had the pleasure of writing about what I liked and was using the school’s social network to do it but this is the last "post".
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Of course, poverty is rather an illness than bad luck, for which you are responsible in the first place and that surely you must cure. The topic is never discussed much during Yoga workshops although the money inflow and outflow is as much a crucial aspect of living well and in harmony as the study of Patanjali’s Sutra, of Gita and of the good energy flow through Mudra and Pranayama.
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What is astonishing in the human being is the "acceptance" of these fairy-tales as real, basing their lives on them, making them (their lives) so miserable and expecting others to also accept them, thus infecting other people's lives with their own ignorance. There is a whole host of ignorant people who believe that science is above the parts and therefore truthful.
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I wonder if there is really a need for this constant noise. Do we really have to talk for hours without saying nothing? I always thought that words were important and in a way, I still think so. I believe communication is fundamental to understand and to be understood by the surrounding world. Yet lately my thought has changed.
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Written words are always sort of sleazy, once read they tend to dissolve in ether, at the most just remaining as distorted and far away echoes promptly absorbed by the immeasurable cosmic ear. Most probably, being less obtuse and square than what I’m, an article or novel with such a title would never be published or proposed; the “dream story”, indeed, of many non-authors (as I’m): “The Long Ride”.
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We suffer when the mind story that we live only within our psyche deviates from reality. Pain, both physical and mental, simply happens beyond our will. The body gets sick, we get injured, a dear friend dies. We cannot do anything about it. Suffering is very different thing and only when one is lying between the coils of ignorance it gets mistaken for pain: suffering does not happen; one chooses to suffer, mostly unconsciously.
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The books to bring on a trip are one of the ways to stay on the journey. Accounts that show other people’s outlook on stories near or far, they become magnifying lenses on the present. Squeezing through bodies and objects in the souks is a challenge. The sandals are dirty with mud and organic residues and the skin impregnated with strong, sweetish or savory scents.
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Enraptured by the adrenaline of the moment and the beauty of the landscape we stop the car and dance in the middle of the road with the moths that seem to dance with us, drugged by the lights of the car headlights. I landed in the US with Emanuela, in Portland, Oregon on September 22nd. I had picked a nice place called Austin (not the one in Texas) as the first stop on our trip, a village of 200 inhabitants near the mountains of Toiyabe in Nevada, which I knew about through a novel by Don Winslow and that fascinated me for its beauty and its desolation.
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Almost never have I bought a book by chance that I did not like the editorial project or, at least, the cover image. Sometimes I was disappointed, but less than what statistics could confirm. Meknes’ Medina, part of the poorer market. I'm looking for a book. Any book, I tell myself, as long as it allows me to have something to read during the long journeys on public transport from one place to the other and in the evening, after walking all day in the African sun.
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I left early the “Small Country”, just because I felt suffocated and constricted, even though I soon discovered that any “Country” defined as such, has its own limits. I was born and raised in a part of this planet called Italy. I bear a Passport issued by the so called “Italian Republic”. I’m therefore considered an “Italian Citizen”, at least according to the actual denominational system even though I never fully understood what it really means.
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