Pretzel Logic

About a decade and a half ago, I saw a man doing yoga on some cardboard just outside the Tainan City Culture Center. At least, that’s what the homemade sign on a similar piece of cardboard said, just above the request for donations. At that time, the only thing I knew about yoga was the lotus position, which made sitting like a Native American seem a lot easier than sitting like an Indian. This guy in Tainan must have been a part-time contortionist. He could scratch his left ear with his right big toe after swinging his leg around the back of his head. He assumed positions that made me cringe in intestinal discomfort.

A few years later, my wife was able to get a teacher to come up to Chiayi once a week to give a class at our home. Along with a half dozen friends, we would follow the instructions of a master whose title was Dada. No, it was not an avant-garde painting class, but actual yoga exercises as proffered by Dada’s group, which is a polite, apolitical way of saying religion (sect? cult?). He gave me a book about some of their practices, from which the only thing I remember now was the prohibition of cutting the hair in the pubic region. He also give me some regulation underwear sanctioned by his group, which I tied the wrong way and brought back terrible memories of junior high gym classes.

The exercises were great and I was really proud that I was able to perform most of them with a relatively high degree of proficiency. Dada also showed a few difficult postures that were designed to increase strength, a concept that seemed in direct contrast to what I had always thought yoga was all about. For me, yoga was just a series of different positions used to enhance meditation, with the ultimate goal of calming the mind and thus the body. Dada showed us various exercises that developed the body so that the mind could better control it and find serenity.

Our class disbanded after about a year and I did not stick with the regimen. I was (and still am) too competitive, too Western, too much into organized sports. However, yoga has grown in popularity throughout Taiwan. There is a 24-hour channel that just runs yoga shows, usually with lean, straight-backed artisans leading a small “class” through various routines. A number of centers have opened around Chiayi and apparently flourish. At the front of one of them is a huge advert with a skinny Indian assuming a position that only a man with double jointed knees and lacking muscle mass could possibly hold. The soles of his feet are almost on his chest, with his toes just inches below his chin. This alone shouts “masochist” to me, but this feeling is reinforced by his eyes, which pop out to the size cue balls. His face screams “I know I’m supposed to be loving it, but…”

Which brings me back to the yogic shape shifter back in Tainan. I actually saw him again on a visit to the Culture Center earlier this year. He was still performing on cardboard, wearing only a pair of dark blue pants like last time, and still asking for tips. His hair had flecks of gray, but he was still squirming about assuming different postures that made his small physique appear both fluid and rock hard. I now wonder if he would be a good candidate for the Taiwanese yoga asana, or posture yoga, team when it becomes an Olympic sport. I imagine a woman, her waist twisted like a cleaning rag so that the back of her toned shoulders are facing the front of an uplifted leg, the foot pointing upward like a sword, while her other leg curls underneath and seemingly wraps around her buttocks. She slowly turns her face to the camera and while exhaling slowly whispers, “Just do it.”