I am writing this blog while sipping the calming Teavana Jade Citrus Mint on Yeti cup. It has been my daily morning ritual. It is my Yoga pose.
My daughters and wife are into Vinyasa just as they are in yen for Rothschild Chateau Lafite (1982). I find myself on the qui vive for holy concern. I am allergic to wine and too stern for Adho Mukha Svanasana (Downward-Facing Dog).
I am often asked if Yoga and Wine are of the devil. My quick impulse takes me to the wedding at Cana and the garden of Gethsemane. There is wine. There is pose.
I guess what applies to wine applies to yoga and all else.
My humanity has an uncanny propensity to judge and neatly stack my verdict to two unalterable cells: the sinful and the holy. I judge the moment I rouse. This tea I am drinking is actually too darn hot!
I am made to wonder where and how I got this penchant. One thing I know, once I tag an issue, and in most cases, persons .... I derive a sense of orgasmic power. Of course, at the expense of my raped victims. I know ... it is wicked and definitely, not from God.
This is so true with Yoga and Wine. I used to disdain the yogi/yogini as well as oenophiles. That was until I stumbled upon the rooted rebuke of Psalm One. That was when I came to repentance and lost my blindness.
Truly, this world was designed for joy. But due to our present lack of bliss, we turn to all sorts of alluring fountains. We have been inflicted with deep amnesia. We ignore that this is God's World, all things have been crafted with a marked endowment.
What is revealed in creation is wild: the vines produce fruits that transform our evenings into jubilees of fellowship. The human pose is rediscovered for its capability to take in breath and posture to hush the stress. But then again, without The proper Guide, we turn all the good that God crafted into machinating idols. Instead of worshiping the God of the vineyard, we get drunk and gyrate to our lecherous raps. Instead of upward hands lifted to the Sovereign LORD, we chant the Sanskrit with Vedic mantras of nugatory worship.
My young friend Stephanie is into Vinyasa Yoga just as her father is steeped in mainstream Business. Her dad is my hero of a man whose opulence is subversively leveraged for God's kingdom. In a most wonderful ministry, she arranges her limbs in a special way to pray in order to demonstrate the rustle of God's ruach, just as her dad lines up his resources to exalt the One who owns the cattle of a thousand hills.
Stephanie is a tree planted by the streams of water. In her evergreen pose, she is a witness that holy silence can be most vocal in a world gone deaf.
When she is not in deep communion, ask her about her story. (follow@stephaniedan1 on IG; follow @stephanie1 on FB).