Yoga Mats in a Mosque
Explore a world where yoga mats replace prayer rugs in mosques
I said I came to find some peace, to pray, to explore. It was not a lie.
I bowed down, with the Koran in my hands over my prostrate head. As I bowed behind her I noticed something brush the ground above my eyes. I had forgotten to take my 90 Shilling Ale cap off in the place of worship and meditation.
I carefully removed it and cast it aside to an empty wall next to me. I looked over at my son, his little body in child pose, his face buried in his hands, but not in prayer unless talking to yourself is considered prayer. He butt waived slowly and unconsciously in the air.
Returning to myself, I prepared to focus on the moment and retreated into an inventory of my senses. My body relaxed as I smelled the sweet musky odor waif off the Koran now open in my hands. I could smell the sweaty bodies around me, and divine by their smell what they had done for work that day and what they had for supper. I was satisfied I could not smell myself.
I could hear the drone of the corporate prayer in Arabic, which I neither could understand nor comprehend. I observed the women in the desegregated hall, and considered this very progressive mosque. And to think that Jews had the corner on that expansion of thought and religion.
Her long glowing hair peeked out from her head covering. She got up and announced that she felt a disturbance in the place and was going to kick out the three non-compliant individuals that were upsetting her peace. I could see the imam in the corner, quaking and quivering and cowering and under the power in her voice and her pussy.
I decided then and there I would quake and quiver under her power, not cower like her scared lover.
The first one she kicked out was obvious. Some ruccious teen with more than a mild mood disorder. Then she said my name. How could she? Didn’t she know I wanted to be there? Didn’t she sense the irony of a woman, kicking a man out of a patriarchal place of worship? Who did she think she was?
I got up as devoutly and humbly as I could, shame burning a thousand holes into my back as the worshipers turned observers cast various stares of hate, sympathy, and loathing at me, each stone impacting my soul as I gathered up my prayer rug. Or was it my yoga mat?
She escorted me out. Not wanting to go down with out swinging, I concocted a wild lie. “This is going to look great in the paper” I said, looking intently at her to observe the intended flinch. It came. “Oh?” “Yes, I write for the News”, I lied. Only strictly it wasn’t a lie, as a letter to the editor had been published when I was 20.
The letter opined about my inconvenience and fear at having been profiled and pulled over by cops and held at gunpoint when I mistaken for a robber. The cops said I looked like the robber, and when pressed they said I was wearing a Colorado Rockies ball cap just like the suspect. I wondered if this girl was smart enough to google me and find out the details, or if the threat of my words was sufficient to make her mine.
As she turned to part, I came on her hard. “That is a pretty bright burka you’ve got there miss,” I said referring to her blue yoga slash thing she had wrapped around herself. It was more than that, as I regarded her closer. She had multiple layers of cloth wrapped around her, some blue, some translucent. Underneath she had on a pair of beautiful legs. I thought she looked more like I Dream of Jeannie or the Blue Fairy than a misplaced feminist yoga Muslim.
Her folded arms indicated she was about to scold me, and she also felt defensive. I asked if she kicked me out because I was white, male, or was it because I had a child with me. I looked over at and could see my child was quite relived to have been given a free pass out of a stint in boredomville and looked at me like “dad, don’t ruin this and make us go back inside.”
Taking the bait, she choked on it the whole way down before stopping herself and establishing her own reason. “You were causing a disturbance” she said, her robe and eyes swaying in the breeze. “Kicking me out was the most disruptive part of the evening,” I retorted. She huffed defensively and then attacked me. “You have your kid every other weekend?” Those were fighting words. Her myopic view of me ran deeper and was more misinformed than I had feared.“Thanks for kicking me out and giving me a story,” I said.
Her eyes flashed in aghast anticipation of me filling her with more than my words.