The first bell rings at 4:30. Its dark. You can find me in the fetal position curled into my blanket hiding from the cold that crept into the palm-thatched dorm in the early morning hours. My eyes check the clock and return to their familiar shut position. The second bell goes at 4:45. After my minimal morning pep talk, that goes something like "Yana (my Slavic neighbor) is moving towards getting out of bed, maybe I should follow suit", in one fell swoop I straighten my legs, and slide them out from under my baby blue mosquito net. As my feet hit the floor, I sit up. The day has started and there is no turning back. For the month of February as the western world hibernated from winter's chill with fireplaces, red wine, and down comforters; I took shelter from the intrinsic commotion and perpetual movements of the outside world with discipline, quietude, and a hammock under a mango tree. As I walked off a village street and through the yellow gate of the Meenakashi Ashram I simultaneously recognized that I wasn't quite sure how I got there and was mostly uncertain about what exactly I was doing. That being said I entered this Yoga Teacher Training Course with great comfort and surprising confidence, and when I exited through those iron gates 4 weeks later I carried the same sentiments with even greater intensity. Ashram life is no different than life anywhere else. You wake up, you do what you've got to do - get out of bed, eat, show up on time (or, sometimes a little late), participate, try your best, learn a new trick, hear a good story, have a laugh or two, and go to bed. The big difference is that all the activities are focuses on encouraging the participant to look for the answers, to search for happiness internally. Whether it be yoga (asanas) to calm and strengthen the body, meditation (dhyana) to tame the beastly mind, chanting (bhakti yoga) to feed to the heart and the fulfill the emotions, service (karma yoga) to appeal to the active nature, or the study of scripture (jnana yoga) to satisfy the intellect and skepticism - each part of yogic life is about attaining bliss through oneself. No small goal. No easy task. And so the days went. Wake up before the sun, rinse off the night's sweat under a frigid shower, climb into the mandatory yellow and white uniform (yellow for learning and white for purity) and step along the red dirt path, dew dripping onto the top of the head from the leaf tips of banana trees, up to the yoga hall. 5 am Morning Satsang - 30 minutes of silent meditation, 30 minutes of chanting, 30 of minutes teachings, 1 handful of prasad (blessed food) - is a fine way to start any day. 7am. Yoga/Asana class. The first two weeks we practiced the classes we were learning to teach. The last two in more advanced classes, endearingly termed BBC (bone breaking class) by Maniji, our asana teacher. 9am - Brunch. The dining room is floor seating only. Upon entrance rows of bamboo mats with metal plates in front are laid out. I fall into line next to the person in front of me, crossed legged on the bamboo with a plate decorated in a palate of colorful vegetables and grains, cooked and raw. All meals are taken in silence for a dual purposes (1) speaking while eating tends to distracts us from focusing on the present activity (2) speaking while eating fills the stomach with air and hinders our ability to digest properly. No ashram food is the same (even throughout the Indian Sivananda Ashrams). Lucky for me, there were lots of beets, mung beans, dosas, sambars, fresh fruit, chutneys and sauces in this version of the yogic diet - a delightful rainbow of edible options. 9.45 am - Karma Yoga/Service. Yes, sometimes I was scrubbing the toilet. But let me tell you, ringing the bell all day (that includes, the initial 4.30 am morning bell) sounds much worse to me than a few minutes of whipping away daily grind. 11 am - Chanting or Bhagavad Gita Class. Time to get up close and personal with Sanskrit. A lovely American woman guided us through the songs with her sweet voice and harmonium skills and then into one the essential vedic texts, the 'Gita, with patience for the western cynical mind and a depth of (un-blind) faith that can only be demonstrated through devotion. 1pm - Vedantic Philosophy – the backbone of yoga as it is known both in the east and the west. Vedanta literally translates to "the end of knowledge". These were our precious hours with the main man, the guy in orange, our Swami. Swami Govinda runs the Ashram. He's renounced the world. So, one of his job/hobbies/duties is to explain what all this is about to the loads of folks that pass through his Ashram. Once I master all this business, surely I will be enlightened. 3pm - Yoga/Asana Class (#2) - Practice and Instruction in teaching hatha yoga classes. 5pm - Dinner. The smaller of the two daily meals. 7pm - Evening Satsang - same lineup as above with occasional movies or study nights. 9/9.30 - Light's out. We didn't need much convincing to climb back under our mosquito nets and into the horizontal position. Exhaustion from the day's pilled activities and the looming early morning bell was enough enticement for us to quickly brush our teeth, disrobe our uniforms and find our way into the bliss of sleep. Sixty-six of us from all over the world spent 28 days in the fashion mentioned above. At any moment you could hear at least 3 different languages at the dish washing trough. The first week our knees ached from a daily average of 6 hours spent crossed legged on the cement floor, our bodies cried at the adjustment to the intensity of the yoga schedule, and our minds became dazed and confused at the change of life's pace. Before long, the routine normalized and the weeks soared by with a blink, as we maintained a “present-based” mindset. The ups and downs of life continued to exist. One day I'd find myself running to the shelter of the mango tree to release tears who's origins and destinations I could not always uncover, and the next I'd be rocking in the nylon webbed hammock under the shade of the glossy, green leaves sure that I was on the right track towards "true happiness", humming in rhythm with my friends the tropical birds. And then, before I could count the days, I sat at the final puja to the Divine Mother, learned my final yoga pose, sang my last arati, and then Swami handed me my teaching certificate. I'd graduated, the course was over and the ashram was quickly clearing out. I stayed around for a few days, enjoying the peace and quiet of the almost empty ashram. And then with good posture, an evolving headstand and some new mind taming tools, I strolled out the ashram gate, back into the rush and ramble of the real world, with one task at hand, one prevailing thought, my mother. In two days I’d be in Mumbai, my eyes catching the lovely lady for the first time in 6 months. Yeah!
Last night I boarded a bus in Pondicherry and after riding through the night in a reclining chair (with foot rest), my stiff back de-boarded to explore Madurai. This South Indian city is most famous for the Sri Meenakshi Temple Complex. And a prize this 16th century, 6 hectare maze of colorful intricately carved towers, dark tunnels and thousands of god depictions deserves. I spent my first 3 Madurai hours on temple grounds. The first wondering around with some self-pity over my exhaustion and confused about where exactly all the hoards of Hindu pilgrims were running. The last two were shared with a local begger woman by the central pond eating snacks, reading (me), and taking pictures with Indian tourists. Besides the bloody heat, this Madurai is soaring above my expectations. Locals are playful, it is easy to get around, and a relaxed energy rides in the air. My visit to Maduria will be quick. This afternoon I move into the Sivananda Ashram (www.sivananda.org) outside of town to embark on 4 weeks of intensive yoga. The schedule is strict. The day starts at 6am and ends with lights out at 10pm. Yesterday I met a women who did a shorter program at the main ashram in Kerala. She said it’s really tough, that they “break you down to build you up” and that she really enjoyed the yogic portions of the program (opposed to the meditation and chanting). After a few months of traveling about, I’m excited to get down with Hatha yoga, chant loud, stretch hard, and find some building blocks to arrange into a yoga foundation. After years of practicing, I am ready to acquire the basic information based on the Gita (the sacred Hindu doctrine), focus on the breath, and give this ashram business a try. Tomorrow morning, bright and early all this will start. As for the past month or so. David left me in Goa were I soaked up the sun to work through my transition back into traveling solo. Sun therapy, I like to call it. This ancient anti-depression process involves many hours on the beach splitting time between ocean swimming, embracing sun rays, and drinking fresh lime soda. Goa is a stream of beaches along India’s western coast. Each beach has its own vibe. (There is one beach that is purely Russian. Even the people who work in the restaurant are Russian and they’ve got their own brothels with ladies from home) I took up in Arambol, a northern beach the Lonely Planet claims to be a dream for travelers. I would rephrase to say “a homecoming for world’s lost hippies and laid back European holidayers”. A perfect spot for escape, it is a mixed scene. European vacationers blissed out on the beach, the rhythm of the waves massaging their stresses into molecules of sand. While practicing pois (the training version of throwing fire), hippies compare dread lock upkeep tips and take advantage of the substances that clear out their minds. The spiritual searchers come by accident, thinking a few days laid out on a beach chair will aid their quest to quiet the mind. These folks, the active soul enhancers find tucks of new age solutions – the spastic, spiritual Kundalini yoga, the skull cracking Great Freedom, secretive sat songs, and release by dancing to all 5 rhythms. There is a place for everyone and for no one. Maybe it was an issue of armpit hair length – not long or short enough – but even after a week in my beach shack, it was clear this was not the place for me. Although it isn’t my personal paradise, there was much enjoy - a secluded beach a 30 minute hike to the north, morning iyengar yoga classes, fresh salads, a funny mix of people, and a look into the real world of hippies. After 7 days of walking through a burning man scene without the huge public art forms, I met a seasonal Goan hippie/paraglider and heard stories of the “real Goa” in a shared taxi to the bus station. One bouncy bus ride - most of my time was spent in the air - and Hampi would become my home for the next week. This town is full of ruins (for sightseeing), boulder fields (for scrambling), and reservoirs (for drowning the heat). I went from a beach were I had to work real hard to enjoy myself, to a desert/canyon atmosphere were everything feel into my lap. My first few days were spent nursing the dreaded Delhi Belly on the swinging bed outside my cabana. The view of rice fields and a boulder bound river made 5 meters to the toilet at all times requirement not so bad. After I regained some strength it was all European/Isreali friends, swimming with crocodiles, boulder yoga, monkey’s crawling across my lap, motor bike riding, and temple visiting. On an afternoon walk back to my room from the Stone Charriot, I happened upon a group of women planting rice. So the rest of the day (my best Hampi hours) were spent knee high in mud, bent over plunging young rice plants into the fertile soil. Two mothers and their 4 daughter plus me equals 6 women squishing around the square plots, filling them with little green plants and occasionally sipping on hot, sweet tea. There was one man around. He was standing in the shade, supervising I guess. Once I decided on the yoga course, I had to wish this rocky home of mine a farewell and start the long trip south. Twenty-four hours of straight travel – two trains, 1 bus, and 1 amazing South Indian thali doubled the worth of the trip – brought me to Pondicherry. I spent three days in this mix-matched town. Home to the famed Aurobindo Ashram, French spirits, the ever present Indian madness, generational fisherman, and a rocky sea side, Pondicherry may be the most confusing place I’ve visited yet. Luckily I found my way to an old red beater bike to navigate the half wide, clean, quiet French streets and half scattered, chaotic, classic Indian routes. Sunrise cruises through the local village and sunsets spent peddling down the beach promenade. I made a sweet Aussie traveler friend, got the digs on Pondicherry life from the lady who waxed my legs, drank real coffee every day, and found the meanest people in India (this is a longer story). Not too bad. And now, Maduria. I’m off to a world of rules and regulations. Hopefully I won’t turn in Humpty Dumpty, pushed off the wall only to be put back together again. But if so, I expect to be put back together with a firmer glue. For now I am settling into getting educated, relaxing into not having to make any decisions, and pleased to put my bag down for one full month. 
