Yoga on my mind

Our neighborhood boasts about one yoga studio to every five medical marijuana dispensaries, which means there are a lot of places to do yoga.

Sadly, one of my favorites is closing. A small, low-key studio with no pretentions, Kriya Yoga staked a claim on Tennyson before the pubs, art galleries and bistros began gentrifying the district. When Kriya opened 10 or so years ago, there were a smattering of antique shops, a thrift store, a salon, a good bike shop and a place to buy vacuum cleaner parts. Across the street was a ballet school where little girls in tutus and leotards came and went.

I started going because the studio had an Iyengar instructor, the type of yoga I was familiar with. And when she left, I continued, because the hatha classes there made me feel bright-eyed and renewed as opposed to limp and wrung out. (And because the likelihood of spying someone wearing Lululemon was negligible.)

I wasn't going to write about Kriya until I read about Strala yoga in the New York Times. Tara Stiles appears to be someone who should be applauded for taking a low-cost, low-attitude approach to the discipline. Of course, being an old Iyengar student convinced that rules are better broken after they've been learned, I worry her studies didn't take her to India to learn from the living disciples of the great masters.

But she's young and hopefully will continue to study as well as teach. America's melting pot works its alchemy on everything from Chinese food and Latin music to knitting and yoga. Streetscapes change, sweet, no-frills yoga studios close. And, improbably, a pretty model decides to bring yoga to the masses in Manhattan, which practically invented yoga-tude.

We joked in class last night that the space where Kriya is located will become another dispensary. I'm hoping for another kind of urban pioneer. More fiber, please.

Vaya con dios, Kriya. Thanks for all the adho mukha svanasanas! 

Pingbacks and trackbacks (1)+

Comments are closed