Devotee Autoethnography ::

raw sienna AutoethnographyEyes closed on cherubic faces of divine devotion, chanting Hindu gibberish to wheezing harmoniums, clanging tambourines, untuned guitars, rattles, bells, sticks, and perhaps a vigorous merely poorly-rehearsed set of tablas Shes a breather, they say, either in friendliness to jest, or patronizingly to criticize. And unremarkably, non much evidence is revealed to modify the minimized label. Well, basically, we worry together, breathe, and then sing a little bit. This is usually the line into which I condense my varyicipation in The Art of financial backingto cram it into a nut shell, and to present it as outsiders would be probably to perceive it if contracting from a flys perch. My own ingress to this culture happened slowly, and not too long ago, so I clam up feel the focus of sliding into an unknown community as an outsider, and notwithstanding experience flutter describing the group to others for fear of bad reactions or vituperative judgment. I weigh it has much to do with the big, bad g- phrase. When people, especially in independence-loving USA, hear the word guru, an oozing blanket of mistrust, disgust, and dismissal creeps up from the nether regions of media intelligence and visions of kool-aid, snake-dancers, and comet-chasers seem to choke the life of any words possibly to follow. The g-word however, when followedas is inevitableby the c-word, often shuts out the gap of following words all together. As my mother would say, It smells like a cult to me. notwithstanding my adamant denials that I could be involved with anything remotely resembling a cult, the freshman time I realized that I was unquestionably a part of this culture had to do with the chilling consideration that a cult was just now what this was and, somehow.I belonged to it. I had traveled from San Diego with a a couple of(prenominal) members of my Art of alimentation family (as many grow accustomed to referring one another) to an forward-looking course in LA. Such a course is offered occasionally to graduates of the preceding coursea six-day workshop of yoga postures, yogic breathing, and introspection. We knew not what to expect of this forthcoming workshop, other than that it would be challenging. Perhaps our rootage taste of this manifested on the first evening, when we waded through 70 pairs of shoes piled at the entryway of a toffee-nosed house toward a living room crammed with the shoes owners.Devotee Autoethnography Devotee AutoethnographyEyes closed on cherubic faces of holy devotion, chanting Hindu gibberish to wheezing harmoniums, clanging tambourines, untuned guitars, rattles, bells, sticks, and perhaps a vigorous but poorly-rehearsed set of tablas Shes a breather, they say, either in friendliness to jest, or patronizingly to criticize. And usually, not much evidence is revealed to complicate the minimized label. Well, basically, we get together, breathe, and then sing a little bit. This is usually the line into which I condense my participation in The Art of Livingto cram it into a nut shell, and to present it as outsiders would be likely to perceive it if spying from a flys perch. My own introduction to this culture happened slowly, and not too long ago, so I still feel the tension of sliding into an unknown community as an outsider, and still experience hesitation describing the group to others for fear of bad reactions or scathing judgment. I think it has much to do with the big, bad g-word. When people, especially in independence-loving USA, hear the word guru, an oozing blanket of mistrust, disgust, and dismissal creeps up from the nether regions of media consciousness and visions of kool-aid, snake-dancers, and comet-chasers seem to choke the life of any words possibly to follow. The g-word however, when followedas is inevitableby the c-word, often shuts out the possibility of following words all together. As my mother would say, It smells li ke a cult to me. Despite my adamant denials that I could be involved with anything remotely resembling a cult, the first time I realized that I was definitely a part of this culture had to do with the chilling consideration that a cult was exactly what this was and, somehow.I belonged to it. I had traveled from San Diego with a few members of my Art of Living family (as many grow accustomed to referring one another) to an advanced course in LA. Such a course is offered occasionally to graduates of the introductory coursea six-day workshop of yoga postures, yogic breathing, and introspection. We knew not what to expect of this upcoming workshop, other than that it would be challenging. Perhaps our first taste of this manifested on the first evening, when we waded through seventy pairs of shoes piled at the entryway of a private house toward a living room crammed with the shoes owners.