It took a long time for me to revisit my roots after over 40 years working for “the man”, the final 25 of those navigating the gnarly city streets of Chicago which I’m told is actually a pretty friendly place by today’s standards. By roots I mean the grassroots upbringing I experienced as a youngster on a small farm in the U.S. heartland, a world where it was just assumed or understood that you show respect for your family, friend and neighbor.

Some people never leave that protective environment. They don’t have to experience the slice of life that can be cold, cruel and callous. A life that many times lacks respect for humanity. I have experienced this rudeness and inconsideration. I still feel the threat of arrows aimed my way. But at my advanced age, barbs directed at me really don’t matter much. You know, waste your vitriol on someone else. I also am ashamed to admit that there have been times I have absorbed too thoroughly a rudeness that seems to permeate many of this society’s people and have forgotten my manners or the respect for others my father and mother taught me.

Maybe I should say the respect my father showed me by his example, specifically the respect he showed my mother and my sister, a trait that was invaluable for me as I traveled the land mine of journalism where it is now roughly half male and half female. Diversity was never discussed by my father. It was just understood that we were all equal. I do not know how that man stayed so strong in his beliefs and remained such a gentleman as he slaved away in near poverty on that dirt farm in Kansas. I used to tell people I grew up in a middle class farm family. Bullshit! We were poor. But my father and mother always made sure we had food and clothing, so I guess we weren’t the poorest of the poor.

The word yoga wasn’t mentioned once in my family, at least not that I remember. I recall in the sixties that hippies were want to smoke pot and do yoga at the same time and also mix in a flute solo on occasion. It was the cool thing to do but was viewed by many as almost un American. This is the yoga I knew and if I would have expressed interest in this meditative, caring and physical activity there is no doubt I would have been ostracized in my little country school. My town, population 350 and school with a senior class of 20 prided itself mainly on the pursuit of football, yes tackle, basketball, not hoops and running track. It wasn’t all bad mind you, that’s just how it was in those days in that little corner of the world.

I grew away from those surroundings, found myself alone in the roaring nineties and severely out of shape. I began working my body back into some semblance of my youth by riding an exercise bike and lifting weights. It wasn’t easy but nothing is easy past the age of forty unless you call not being carded to enter a nightclub or house of ill repute easy. I also began running a little in the late nineties and completed several races including marathons. By 2004 the pounding and lack of stretching was leading to injuries. Friends in my running group suggested I go to yoga. I took their advice and found a 90 minute power yoga class in my gym as the ideal place for me to start. Mind you I’ve always been in a bit of a hurry and was only interested in preventing physical injuries. Never did I imagine that this activity would help heal my mind and help me reconnect with the goodness and love that my family had provided me as a small boy.

Indeed, fifteen minutes into my first class of what I perceived as kick ass power yoga, it became obvious my goal was to avoid 1. Falling on the young woman next to me. 2. Avoid trying too get my foot behind my head. 3. Not try to kick up into a handstand that day. 4. In general avoid making a real big ass out of myself. I stayed on the mat to the end and actually did most of what was asked of me. There were three options. Option one was the beginning of the pose, which is where I stayed. Option two was an intermediate version of the pose and the third option was the advanced pose. Seeing this instructor demonstrate all three options was worth the price of membership in that gym. Along with being proficient as a teacher of the ancient practice of yoga, she was kind to all in the class, especially to beginners such as I. My first lesson in yoga also included the instruction that there really were no instructions in yoga, only guidances and supports. There was no criticism, only direction toward the goal and it became clear to me that I had found a new home. I could be me, not compete and simply soak up the soft music and warm feeling that the class gave me. And yes there was some exertion, deep heavy breathing and sweat.

My yoga classes now are as varied as the people that attend. After 10 years of practice I have learned from reading the class description whether I want to attend that class. Do I want to sweat, breath heavy and really work or am I in the mood for a warm room only and do I need only to restore or heal my muscles, joints and psyche. There have been very few instances where a yoga instructor was really having a bad hair day and the class was something I was more than happy to escape from. Once I get into the yoga mood, I’m there for the duration and soaking up the karma. I jokingly refer to my hot yoga classes as an hour of hell. But I know I emerge from them soaked with sweat and a better and calmer person.

I remember at the end of my first yoga class the instructor, after her traditional chant, advised all in the class to be aware when we get back on the street of our yogi brains. The yogi brain is giving, accepting, loving and nurturing…which is what much of the class was about…in addition to building strength, flexibility and stamina. Unfortunately that brain may not be well received by some mean spirited jerks, and there are many around here. It still amazes me how many people choose to take advantage of someone who is kind and generous.

On the flip side was the teacher’s suggestion to take our practice off the mat. I continue to hear this suggestion from the wonderful yoga instructors I have today. Yes, there are mean, obnoxious and nasty people but the yogi or yogini doesn’t have to participate. Yoga and what it stands for has a value in society, acting as a buffer to abrasive ilk. Being a kind and good person sometimes is lonely and as I now look back into my father’s eyes I can see the loneliness but I also can see the goodness that he offered to all.

At my father’s funeral a few years ago in the tiny church that he attended as a boy in that farming community a young man walked up to me with his voice quivering and tears in his eyes and said to me, “your dad was the nicest man I’ve ever met.”

My dad never saw a yoga mat but in his own way demonstrated the spirit and karma of the yogis and yoginis I enjoy meeting and working with today. No he didn’t do it perfectly. I saw him really pissed off many times, throwing wrenches at machinery, cussing and kicking clods til his foot hurt. But when the dust settled, he was kind and generous to a fault and he was also the strongest man I ever met. One big misconception is that yogis or yoginis may be weak. A 100 pound girl cannot look like the traditional body builder but I have seen them move smoothly from a handstand into a crouching or squatting crow pose and back up with a few deep breaths and apparent minimal effort. I can tell you that they are really strong.

I will never be able to live up to my father’s legacy of decency nor will I be a perfect yogi but I can continue to improve physically, mentally and spiritually, be kind to others and can share myself on and especially off the mat.