My friend Jacki was down visiting last month, and on the Saturday she was here, we embarked on a nice, relaxing morning hike up Bearwallow Mountain.
At this point, Bearwallow is one of my go-to’s, but Jacki had never done it before, and as we sat atop it’s peak, she said. “I feel like I’m a Von Trapp. These hills feel alive with the sound of music.”
But that morning, that hill wasn’t alive with the sound of music, or a lonely goatherd’s yodels…or even nature. That morning, that mountain was alive with the sound of…chakras.
When we arrived at the top of Bearwallow, there were two competing groups of women setting intentions, centering themselves, and embarking on the practice of yoga.
One group was large—unmissable, really (centering themselves in the very best vantage point on the top of Bearwallow and ensuring that no photograph that morning would miss their neon Lululemon sets)—comprised of ten women and an instructor. The other was more private, and if you weren’t looking around, you were liable to miss them: just two women and an instructor. Both made me wonder—and this is not a new nor wholly original thought by any means—if people actually believe in yoga…or just the image it projects.
I couldn’t discern whether the large group was an advertised meetup of some kind (a Yoga-On-the-Mountain type endeavor) or whether it was a bachelorette party who’d booked a session with a serious yogi, who found herself disappointed by their lack of commitment to “the practice.” I’m inclined to believe the latter because the instructor in front of us seemed…unenthused and borderline frustrated. I didn’t blame her. The yoga devotees seemed dressed more for photos than yoga, some sporting the requisite Lululemon sets built for both, but a large bulk in tennis dresses and wanna-be Coachella getups. Many of them took copious selfies and photos of one another, and one absentmindedly snacked on Sun Chips the entire time. It does make one wonder…why go through the hassle of getting a yoga instructor and mats to the top of Bearwallow if all you want to do is take photos…but then again, one doesn’t have to wonder that hard to arrive at the answer you already know.
The other group was interesting. The two women who weren’t the instructor seemed super into the yoga. They were dressed athletically but not peacocky, and I didn’t see them take a photo the entire time. They were definitely more advanced than the larger group and were covered in sweat once they finished—we ended up walking behind them on our descent from Bearwallow. The instructor, meanwhile, was outfitted in her chicest leggings, most luxe pashmina (which seemed wholly unnecessary for this day, which was forecasted—correctly, I might add—to hit the high 90s by the afternoon), a jaunty hat I immediately hated, and long, dangly feather earrings that were definitely flirting—very hard—with cultural appropriation.
I heard her ask the girls if they wouldn’t mind taking a photo—”for my Instagram”—and they politely demurred, citing being sweaty messes (which I would’ve as well). She took that well, but then they stopped, and she started photographing the larger group—still practicing—in earnest.
I can’t help but wonder whether she posted those photos and acted like that was the group she led. I also can’t help but think that there was a misalignment between instructors and practitioners that morning on Bearwallow Mountain.
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