The Making of a Modern Yogi

began writing this book at the age of sixteen, which is not to say I was some

kind of teen prodigy but, rather, a slightly eccentric kid who took up yoga early,
then watched closely as it grew into a cultural phenomenon, providing the
backdrop for much of my life and fodder for this book.
I attended my first class in the mid-1990s, a lone teenager tucked into a kindly
cadre of white-haired retirees on Cape Cod, in Massachusetts. I still wonder how
I must have looked to them, young enough to be their granddaughter, attending
a weekly yoga class at the local recreation center, where I played indoor youth
soccer a few years earlier. I was the only girl on my team back then, and the
boys were all smaller and quicker than me. They never passed the ball. To make
matters worse, the sleeves of my jersey were too short for my gangly arms, so I
was bigger and slower, with a jersey to accentuate this fact. Great. Despite
being a natural athlete later on, those Saturday afternoons of memory are
marked by feeling like a clumsy orangutan in a pack of sporty gazelles in Umbro
shorts. (I digress).
My point is that yoga was not cool or stylish or popular. And I loved it anyway.
Possibly, this is why I loved yoga. It seemed like a closely kept, exotic secret.
Today, the secret is out. Yogas ascendance in popularity outside its birthplace in
India began in earnest with the flower children of the 1960s and grew during
subsequent decades. In the 90s, when I discovered it, yoga was more visible
and available, but it remained a mostly alternative pursuit, for New Age types,
former hippies, and aspirant hippies. Even the concept of a studio dedicated
exclusively to the practice of yoga wouldnt exist in most cities for several years
to come. Until then, yoga was largely found in recreation centers, community
halls, church basements, and a growing number of health clubs. (This not-toodistant era also predated specialized yoga mats, stylish pants, snug fitting tops,
and nonskid, toeless socks.) The paparazzi hadnt yet begun to stalk yoga
studios in New York and L.A. to snap photos of celebrities with sunglasses in
place, mat nonchalantly slung over a shoulder, a look that a popular yoga
blogger has coined PDY: Public Displays of Yoga. The sheer fact that I can write a
sentence including yoga, paparazzi, and popular yoga blogger is evidence of a
dramatic shift in the zeitgeist. When I discovered yoga in a community center at
the age of sixteen, there were no celebrities practicing yoga (that I knew of). But
this was all about to change. By 1998, the cultural barometer of music, fashion,
and fitness trends, Madonna, pledged to maintain her chiseled physique
exclusively through yoga and subsequently feng shuied a vast collection of
cardio equipment out of her home. The material girl had gone spiritual. In 2001,
another very recognizable face graced the cover of the most recognizable
magazine in the world: supermodel Christy Turlington on the cover of Time, with
a headline hailing the exercise cum meditation trend that was sweeping the
nation. Yet, even with celebrities publicly lauding yogas benefits around the

corner, no one could have predicted the incarnation of yoga celebrities. Our
role models were B.K.S. Iyengar and Pattabhi Jois, two forefathers of modern
yoga. Both were trained by a man named Krishnamacharya and usually
photographed in remote areas of southern India wearing loincloths or bloomers.
As for me, I would have been less out of place in that community center if one or
more of the following things were true of my first yoga class: (1) I wasnt a
teenager. (2) I wasnt sitting on a beach towel in lieu of a yoga mat. (In my
defense, the flyer advertising the class recommended a beach towel if you
didnt own a proper matnot that this helped my situation.) (3) I was
accompanied by a bohemian parent who practiced yoga, made granola, and
wore Birkenstocks. This may come as a surprise, but I dont have a parent like
this. My mom maintains an impressive vegetable garden, but she finds tofu
offensive, cannot bear the sight of clog shoes of any kind, and has yet to do
yoga. My dad is a classically trained chef and career restaurateur. He is not a fan
of substituting staple ingredients like butter and eggs for coconut oil or
applesauce. These are the nonyogi parents I was allotted, and I love them. (4) I
was accompanied by a fellow yoga-curious teenager. This is a ludicrous
suggestion for obvious reasons. Teenagers in the 90s talked on the phone for
hours, which was plugged into a wall, and made mix tapes for each other. They
didnt explore ancient spiritual practices among a gaggle of senior citizens.
I sought my first yoga class for the same reasons any teenager does anything: I
was curious, and I knew of someone older and cooler who did it. Jill was the
older sister of a friend who embodied cool for me. Initially, I attributed this to the
fact that she was in college and possessed a higher social standing through
things I lacked, such as a drivers license, shiny blond hair, skinny legs, clear
skin, and two separate and well-defined eyebrows. Thankfully, I soon realized
these werent the reasons people beamed when they talked about Jill, and they
did beam.
Jill stood apart from the flock. She seemed to care little about how others
regarded her legs or anything else, the stuff that consumes a teenager. People
brightened around her and talked about the interesting things she did. Even
guys sometimes bypassed her blondeness and shininess in favor of the fact that
she sang in a rock band or played lacrosse. She didnt look like everyone else,
nor did she try. One summer she chopped off all her hair, then wore funky head
scarves. When the other college girls started wearing more makeup, Jill wore
less. When dainty necklaces from Tiffany adorned their necks, Jill opted for
colorful beaded ones made by her friends. She talked about things that excited
her, which were not the things that excited other women her ageas best I
could gather (while eavesdropping on the older girls at my summer job on the
ferryboat where we all worked)these subjects usually topped out at boys and
getting drunk in beach dunes with boys. Jill was beautiful, yes, but her beauty
was an afterthoughta parenthetical statement to the stuff that really turned
headsa lightness about her that preceded everything else. Jill understood
things I knew I needed to know, like how to care less about what people think;
do even the most ordinary things with a hint of a smile, sparkle, or something

that says I am who I am, and I wouldnt have it any other way; and seek
inspiring life experiencesabove a din of peer voices. Jill did yoga. I thought
there might be a connection between this and the type of person I hoped Id
grow up to be. Thats how it started.