You couldn’t feel rage up here – or even mild irritation – no matter how hard you tried, writes Suzanne Harrington
Spending a week off road meditating up a mountain can result in a perspective shift when you re-enter the earth’s atmosphere.
A small provincial airport may seem like Heathrow Terminal 5 in its sophisticated luxe; boiling a kettle while the oven is on poses no threat to overloading the solar power; hot showers can last more than 3 minutes without using up the finite hot water and thus enraging your fellow yogis.
Except it’s pretty much impossible to enrage your fellow yogis, because everyone is too busy chanting Om while sitting in lotus position on the mountain side, overlooking an endless empty valley, the only sounds song birds, woodpeckers and owls. You couldn’t feel rage up here – or even mild irritation – no matter how hard you tried.
Obviously this all changes as the minibus carrying the peaceful yogis leaves the mountain behind and reaches the distant airport full of tourists at the end of their beach holiday. Dusty and dazed, and entirely benign – on account of all the mountain air and outdoor living – the yogis endure a jarring interface with their fellow airport users. Shrieks of Oi Wayne and silly cow and I’ll facking kill ya reverberate through the airport, shattering freshly balanced chakras and causing teeny frown lines to crease formerly beatific foreheads. Mouths that have spent a week smiling and nibbling on chia seed surprise begin to slope downwards; you find yourself having to haul your unconditional positive regard out of your hand luggage, and slap it back into place, rather than slapping random strangers in your immediate vicinity.
You may find yourself staring at Wayne and Silly Cow, vocally threatening to injure each other all the way to the budget bag drop, and visualising their chakras. Their throat chakras, the energy centre of communication, seem to be in fine fettle, even as your third eye winces at their lurid beachwear. You realise then that although you may be a beatific yogi, you are also a raging snob, and applaud your crown chakra for its insight.
After a week away from electricity, the bright lights of Duty Free and its clouds of squirted perfume prove overpowering, as does the litre of Coke Zero you have just poured down your neck, to rebalance your toxins after all that green tea. Life is, after all, yin and yang. Your sacral chakra does, however, begin loudly demanding a wee moments before the flight is called.
Ahh, you think. A flush loo, after a week of compost toilets.
Must remember not to fling any sawdust down it. There is only one cubicle in the departure lounge loo; Silly Cow stands between you and the loo door. You smile at her, because you are a beatific yogi, and you have been smiling at people all week up the mountain. She looks at you, from your dusty flip flops to your unwashed hair; her glittery sandals emanate raw menace. What, she growls, are you fackin smiling at? Eh?
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