Ananda Ashram

When my mother first suggested we take a trip to the Ananda Ashram, which offers yoga classes called “Vinyasa,” “Iyengar,” and “Ashtanga,” I said “bless you.” After a bit of research, however, I found out that the Ananda Ashram in Monroe, New York, is actually the center of the Yoga Society. I didn’t even know there was a society. This Ashram was established by Shri Brahmananda (see the “Ananda” in his name?) Sarasvati in 1964, and continues today as a spiritual retreat, offering different types of yoga (Vinyasa, Iyengar, Ashtanga, Hatha), meditation, Sanskrit, even Eastern dance and music classes. The property, at the foot of the Catskill Mountains, is preserved in a natural and tranquil environment, complete with log cabins, weeping willows, and wooded trails weaving through the acres owned by the Ashram. I noticed a few people sleeping in their Hybrid cars overnight, with their front windows facing the not-so-distant mountains.

When my mom and I made our pilgrimage, there wasn’t anything in particular going on at the Ashram. But for the vegetarian, yoga-enthusiast mom, Ananda Ashram is a fool-proof plan. We pull into the gravel driveway, following the hand painted, wooden sign pointing us onward. The branches of a large weeping willow tree, like long, gentle arms, grazed the roof of the car, beckoning us to the peaceful setting. 

We squeeze between two Priuses, each adorned with dozens of bumper stickers. “Tree Hugger,” “Green is Good,” “Nothing Dumber than a Hummer,” and my favorite, with the words “Put the Fun Between Your Legs” written over a picture of a bicycle. A young eco-couple steps out of the car on the left (the “Legs” one), takes one collective glance at our ozone-destroying auto, and seem to immediately decide what kind of people we were. They head off, yoga mats swinging in hemp-cases over their backs, down a dirt path in the direction of the “Cosmic Temple,” as designated by another wooden sign. I spot a white cottage behind the willow tree, which has the look of a “Welcome/Register Here” kind of place, so we somewhat guiltily grab our plastic water bottles from the car, and make our way down the gravel path. A kind faced woman greets us on the front steps, serenely asks us to take off our shoes before entering, and then leads us over to a sign-in table. There’s a Level Two/Three Hatha yoga class at 11am that we decide to try, leaving us about ten minutes to kill (or should I say, use resourcefully).

We hike back up the gravel path to the artistically worn, gray wooden building which we’d been told would house our yoga class. Inside, the room was rather full, though not as much as it is during the week, according to a woman setting up her mat next to me. The instructor, a middle aged woman with a strange European-who-moved-to-New-York accent, asked the group, who had never been to a yoga class before? A bearded man in a red bandana, another mother and daughter duo, and a slightly nervous looking pregnant woman all raised their hands. The instructor advised them to only attempt poses they felt comfortable doing, and that yoga is not about holding one’s balance in a difficult position, but getting back up when one falls. I instantly thought of the bike bumper sticker. 

The sudden sound of exaggerated inhaling and exhaling brought me back: the class was beginning. Plinky-plunky music, like the sound of chimes in a soft breeze filled the room. Yoga, I’ve found, no matter what the type of class you try, has the same effect each time: a sort of ‘flow’ occurs, the instructor leads the group through poses, and participants of all levels move together, some holding their balance and others not. This class was different, though. It was probably the ridiculously peaceful setting, or the organic food (which looked delicious, and was apparently made out of flowers and sunshine). Or it could have just been the lingering scent of hemp. But somehow, I could feel the earth beneath my feet, through the wooden floor. And somehow, even the most pressing stressors seemed silly right now. Soon the instructor’s voice began to flow as well, and at the end of class, it was time to lie back on our mats and close our eyes for meditation and reflection. 

Despite the sarcastic remarks I’d been voicing to my mom about the people, the atmosphere, and pretty much everything, I could feel myself succumbing to the tranquil flow, my eyes closing as though I could drift off to sleep. Funny, I think drowsily, I’m actually being put to sleep without the help of a pill with “PM” in the name. But then its over. After only a few blissful minutes the instructor brings us back to the present with a hand-held chime, which she strikes sharply three times. I hate that chime. She wishes everyone ‘Namaste,’ and we turn to one another and do the same (like in church) before standing up with creaking knees (OK, just mine). We roll up our mats, and leave with better karma than we had when we entered. There seems to be a pleasurable, heavy sensation lingering with us, like how you feel when you finally sit down after hours on your feet. I felt like I’d been standing for a hundred years, and just now took a seat. Must be all that good karma.
Krystin Barnett