Devotee Autoethnography ::

Devotee Autoethnography Eyes 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†¦ â€Å"She’s 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. â€Å"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 Living—to cram it into a nut shell, and to present it as outsiders would be likely to perceive it if spying from a fly’s 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 â€Å"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 followed—as is inevitable—by the c-word, often shuts out the possibility of following words all together. As my mother would say, â€Å"It smells like 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 o f 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 â€Å"advanced course† in LA. Such a course is offered occasionally to graduates of the â€Å"introductory course†Ã¢â‚¬â€a 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 â€Å"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. Devotee Autoethnography :: Devotee Autoethnography Eyes 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†¦ â€Å"She’s 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. â€Å"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 Living—to cram it into a nut shell, and to present it as outsiders would be likely to perceive it if spying from a fly’s 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 â€Å"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 followed—as is inevitable—by the c-word, often shuts out the possibility of following words all together. As my mother would say, â€Å"It smells like 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 o f 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 â€Å"advanced course† in LA. Such a course is offered occasionally to graduates of the â€Å"introductory course†Ã¢â‚¬â€a 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 â€Å"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.