LAHORE, Pakistan — I am a self-hating yoga practitioner. I used to wonder: If I don’t like yoga, why do I do it? I pretend to do it only for health benefits. I really just do it for savasana. For those who haven’t practiced yoga: Toward the end of the class you are asked to lie down and stay still, the lights are usually turned down, and you are supposed to do nothing, think nothing. Savasana is the opposite of activity.
Doing nothing is my favorite thing in life. I believe in the ancient practice of doing nothing. I believe that this planet is doomed because we so believe in doing things that now the world’s most recognized dictum is “Just do it.” But how can you think nothing? Especially when you’re told to think nothing?
In yoga, after you have elevated your heart above your head in Downward Dog and after you have reared your head like a cobra many times over, you are finally allowed to let your shoulders sag and your body go, and to set your mind free. My mind is too afraid of thinking nothing, so it usually goes into overdrive.
Before I knew the literal meaning of savasana, I used to send my mind on anxiety hunts. A therapist once told me that one way to deal with your anxieties is to chase them, to hunt them down. “Think what’s making you anxious,” she said, “and think of the absolute worst that can happen, multiply it by 10, and then you’ll realize that the present isn’t that bad after all.”
The yoga instructor says, “Breathe into your pose.” Sometimes I forget to breathe because I am busy making lists. Like a list of my random anxieties. The traffic outside is terrible; will I find parking outside Haji Stores? Those brown eggs they sell — are they really organic or just free range? Breathe. I can hear people breathing around me. They’ve probably cleared their heads, slain all their anxieties, and I’m wondering if I’ll get any likes for that random half-clever thing I tweeted before the class.
I do journalism in three languages, so my capacity for distractions is threefold. While I am going through the shopping list — milk, brown bread, cigarettes and what’s that thing I’m forgetting? — I am also prepping for my little boy’s dinner and thinking about how much flour to add to the soup. Last night, it was too thin; the night before that, too thick. How not to burn the chicken nugget? My son ostensibly is a yoga baby. He was conceived right after my wife started yoga.
I have been told off by my wife for thinking of yoga as a competitive sport, but sometimes yoga instructors remind me of the drill sergeants of my youth. Drill sergeants trapped in poets’ bodies. They talk a lot about the soul. But maybe they have a soul and I don’t. And how can I harness something I don’t have?
Halfway through my years of yoga distractions, I searched online for the word “savasana.” And that changed yoga for me: Savasana means “corpse pose.”
When I moved to a new class, my new teacher said: “Don’t worry. It’s your first week, you’ll get better at it.” I was so smug in my knowledge that I’ll never be good enough that I didn’t tell her I had been doing yoga for three years. In the previous class, I had occasionally heard, “Well done, Hanif.” I always wanted to say: That 20-year-old girl who does the bridge like a bridge and becomes a tree when she does a tree, that’s good. I am just a recipient of your good yogi intentions. I am just a corpse with lists.
“Breathe into the pain,” the yoga teacher says, and I think of other corpses that I have seen in recent years.
I had a musician friend once who found out that he was about to die and he started writing poetry. Did everyone say that he was good because they knew that he was dying? I knew he was always good at poetry. He used to have a book on yoga but never practiced it.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Another friend died. He wasn’t a poet or a singer. But he was very funny. And sometimes not funny at all. I miss him more because he didn’t leave any poetry behind. He probably would have approved of my doing yoga, and then made fun of me and told me there is no such thing as free-range chicken.
And another friend died. She was funny, fierce and tender. She made a life out of being that. She never had time for yoga. Only street cricket.
I console myself by thinking that all of them are in an eternal savasana without any lists.
The yoga teacher says, hug yourself. I do hug myself, but I am thinking: Here’s a grown-up telling other grown-ups to hug themselves. I hug myself and think of a friend who is still alive. He was the first person in our group to discover yoga. He had chronic asthma. He took some classes, saved money, wrangled a visa to India and studied with some famous yoga teachers. We lost touch. Recently I found out that he has become much sought after as a yoga teacher and does only private classes.
I ran into him and we arranged to meet for lunch. He told me what yoga has done for him. He is a mountain climber now, a serious one. He has reached eight of the world’s highest peaks. He saved ,000 by teaching yoga. That’s the amount it takes to climb Mount Everest. Some people do it for much more. He said he did it the simple way.
We recalled that when we were young and lived on the same street and used to send out our C.V.s, employers looked at our address and threw them away. Our address was known for having constant troubles and long curfews. My friend, a lower-middle-class boy, has cured his own asthma through yoga, then gone on to climb the world’s highest peak. In the class, I cheat on my breathing exercises and wait for savasana to begin.
Mohammed Hanif (@mohammedhanif) is the author of the novels “A Case of Exploding Mangoes,” “Our Lady of Alice Bhatti” and “Red Birds.” He is a contributing opinion writer.
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“【你】【觉】【得】【合】【适】，【就】【足】【够】【了】？【朝】【中】【大】【臣】，【还】【有】【天】【下】【的】【百】【姓】，【他】【们】【会】【信】【服】【吗】？”【瑜】【娢】【微】【微】【笑】【道】，“【本】【宫】【入】【宫】【多】【年】，【深】【知】【一】【个】【人】【的】【出】【身】，【有】【多】【重】【要】。【做】【妃】【嫔】【如】【此】，【做】【皇】【后】【就】【更】【重】【要】。” “【可】【是】，【皇】【上】【喜】【欢】【姐】【姐】，【也】【信】【任】【姐】【姐】。”【许】【若】【梅】【劝】【道】，“【您】【做】【了】【皇】【后】，【不】【就】【能】【与】【皇】【上】，【夫】【妻】【一】【心】【吗】？” “【这】【件】【事】，【以】【后】【再】【说】【吧】。
“【你】【来】【啦】” 【温】【婉】，【且】【带】【着】【极】【细】【腻】【清】【冷】【的】【声】【音】【在】【耳】【边】【响】【起】。 【本】【应】【处】【于】【睡】【眠】【中】【的】【韩】【白】【衣】【睁】【开】【眼】，【一】【片】【铺】【落】【白】【雪】【的】【辽】【阔】【原】【野】，【蓦】【的】【出】【现】【在】【他】【面】【前】。 【向】【远】【方】【眺】【望】，【黑】【与】【白】【交】【界】【明】【晰】。 【双】【脚】【明】【明】【踏】【在】【雪】【原】【上】，【身】【上】【也】【仅】【有】【一】【身】【白】【色】【大】【恐】【龙】【连】【体】【睡】【衣】，【但】【是】【韩】【白】【衣】【却】【没】【有】【感】【觉】【到】【丝】【毫】【寒】【冷】。 【脚】【下】【唯】
【焦】【琳】【琳】【带】【着】【林】【潇】【潇】【离】【开】【了】【平】【房】【区】，【往】【回】【赶】【的】【路】【上】【焦】【琳】【琳】【一】【直】【盯】【着】【林】【潇】【潇】【的】【神】【态】。 【林】【潇】【潇】【还】【是】【那】【个】【林】【潇】【潇】，【依】【旧】【漂】【亮】，【大】【方】。【但】【是】【和】【以】【前】【不】【一】【样】【的】【是】，【洁】【净】【的】【脸】【上】【多】【了】【一】【抹】【绯】【红】。【精】【致】【的】【嘴】【角】【总】【是】【不】【自】【觉】【的】【抽】【搐】【着】。 【焦】【琳】【琳】【小】【心】【翼】【翼】【的】【问】【到】:“【她】【都】【跟】【你】【说】【了】【些】【什】【么】？” 【林】【潇】【潇】【的】【内】【心】【经】【历】【着】【波】【涛】【翻】【滚】，【她】【一】六盒免费图库【仍】【在】【继】【续】，【寻】【风】【抑】【制】【住】【内】【心】【的】【冲】【动】。 【这】【是】【一】【间】【店】，【卖】【鲜】【花】【的】【花】【店】，【开】【在】【城】【市】【的】【中】【央】。 【对】【于】【普】【通】【人】【来】【说】，【就】【是】【一】【间】【普】【通】【的】【花】【店】。 【对】【于】【刺】【客】【行】【业】【的】【人】【来】【说】，【这】【是】【一】【块】【神】【秘】【的】【区】【域】。 【在】6【月】，【花】【店】【迎】【来】【了】【一】【位】【客】【人】。 【店】【主】【准】【备】【关】【门】【休】【息】，【电】【动】【升】【降】【门】【降】【落】【的】
1058.【充】【满】【了】【无】【限】【期】【待】 **【泽】，【对】【于】【这】【个】【鲁】【克】，【还】【是】【有】【点】【了】【解】【地】。 【在】【这】【个】【学】【校】【里】【面】，【鲁】【克】，【也】【是】【一】【个】【厉】【害】【的】【角】【色】。 “【这】【个】【时】【候】，【坐】【下】【来】……【在】【这】【个】【时】【候】，【把】【你】【喊】【过】【来】，【喝】【口】【茶】……【喝】【口】【茶】，【聊】【一】【聊】……“【鲁】【克】，【说】【道】。 【望】【着】**【泽】，【鲁】【克】，【说】【道】。【这】【个】【鲁】【克】【的】【声】【音】，【此】【刻】【不】【是】【多】【么】【地】【大】。 【这】【个】
【这】【一】【次】【洗】【牌】【的】【人】【是】【傅】【言】。 【傅】【言】【洗】【牌】【的】【技】【术】【也】【很】【不】【错】。 【一】【副】【牌】【被】【他】【洗】【了】【几】【次】，【然】【后】，【将】【牌】【在】【桌】【面】【上】【铺】【开】，【然】【后】，【大】【家】【抽】【牌】。 【按】【照】【惯】【例】，【洗】【牌】【的】【人】，【最】【后】【抽】【牌】。 【同】【样】【是】【抽】【一】【张】【牌】。 【看】【谁】【手】【气】【好】，【抽】【到】【赢】【家】，【看】【谁】【手】【气】【差】，【抽】【到】【输】【家】。 【牌】【抽】【好】【后】，【便】【把】【牌】【亮】【出】【来】。 【井】【清】【然】【抽】【到】【的】【是】，【红】【桃】Q。
… 【毒】【液】【装】【甲】，【并】【不】【存】【在】【于】【当】【初】【系】【统】【赠】【送】【给】【他】【的】【全】【套】【战】【甲】【中】。 【那】【是】【用】【一】【种】【完】【整】【的】【液】【态】【智】【能】【金】【属】【制】【作】【出】【来】【的】【战】【甲】【系】【统】，【可】【在】【与】【穿】【戴】【者】【的】【身】【体】【连】【接】【时】【立】【即】【硬】【化】。 【所】【谓】【的】【液】【态】【智】【能】【金】【属】，【更】【像】【是】【存】【在】【于】【一】【种】【金】【属】【和】【液】【态】【之】【间】【的】【生】【命】【体】，【如】【同】【史】【莱】【姆】【一】【样】【变】【幻】。 【与】【血】【边】【装】【甲】【的】【纳】【米】【技】【术】【不】【同】，【毒】【液】【装】【甲】【是】【基】【于】【共】【生】