Are Yogis Communists?

Yoga and communism are rarely two words that find themselves in the same sentence. On the contrary, yoga has become so popular in the West, that it is now often identified as much with Americana as it is with its deeply communal Indian roots….

This ancient science has done much to satisfy our desires for bodily health and wellbeing in recent times. It has even provided a few small elixirs of spiritual nourishment for many along the way.

Who, then, would dare suggest that a yogi could be anything but a free-living, you can have it all, proponent of the utopian democratic dream? I surely would not dare…

After all, Communism, that antithesis of the American spirit, strives to attain a classless society, where no one stands in privilege or dominion over another…

The yogis, of course, would recognize that the ‘true self’, the essence of each and everyone of us, is identical; that we are, all of us, children of the same Divine spirit, with neither class distinction nor right of dominion over another. Ok, maybe that was a bad example…

Read the rest of this article HERE!

If I Were a Man (part 3)

It was dizzying. To see the houses that fled so fast across the car window, in terms of builders’ bills, or of some technical insight into materials and methods; to see a passing village with lamentable knowledge of who ‘owned it’ and of how its Boss was rapidly aspiring in state power, or of how that kind of paving was a failure; to see shops, not as mere exhibitions of desirable objects, but as business ventures, many mere sinking ships, some promising a profitable voyage—this new world bewildered her.

She—as Gerald—had already forgotten about that bill, over which she—as Mollie—was still crying at home. Gerald was ‘talking business’ with this man, ‘talking politics’ with that, and now sympathizing with the carefully withheld troubles of a neighbor.

Mollie had always sympathized with the neighbor’s wife before.

If I Were a Man (part 2)

Then, being he, sitting there so easily and firmly with his money in his pockets, she wakened to his life-long consciousness about money. Boyhood—its desires and dreams, ambitions. Young manhood—working tremendously for the wherewithal to make a home—for her. The present years with all their net of cares and hopes and dangers; the present moment, when he needed every cent for special plans of great importance, and this bill, long overdue and demanding payment, meant an amount of inconvenience wholly unnecessary if it had been given him when it first came; also, the man’s keen dislike of that ‘account rendered’.

‘Women have no business sense!’ she found herself saying. ‘And all that money just for hats—idiotic, useless, ugly things!’

If I Were a Man (part 1)

‘If I were a man, . . .’ that was what pretty little Mollie Mathewson always said when Gerald would not do what she wanted him to—which was seldom.

That was what she said this bright morning, with a stamp of her little high-heeled slipper, just because he had made a fuss about that bill, the long one with the ‘account rendered’, which she had forgotten to give him the first time and been afraid to the second—and now he had taken it from the postman himself.

Mollie was ‘true to type’. She was a beautiful instance of what is reverentially called ‘a true woman’. Little, of course—no true woman may be big. Pretty, of course—no true woman could possibly be plain. Whimsical, capricious, charming, changeable, devoted to pretty clothes and always ‘wearing them well’, as the esoteric phrase has it. (This does not refer to the clothes—they do not wear well in the least—but to some special grace of putting them on and carrying them about, granted to but few, it appears.)

She was also a loving wife and devoted mother possessed of ‘the social gift’ and the love of ‘society’ that goes with it, and, with all these was fond and proud of her home and managed it as capably as—well, as most women do.

If ever there was a true woman it was Mollie Mathewson, yet she was wishing heart and soul she was a man.

Making a Change (part 3)

When Julia opened her eyes she found loving arms around her, and wise, tender words to soothe and reassure.

‘Don’t say a thing, dearie—I understand. I understand, I tell you! Oh, my dear girl—my precious daughter! We haven’t been half good enough to you, Frank and I! But cheer up now—I’ve got the loveliest plan to tell you about! We are going to make a change! Listen now!’

And while the pale young mother lay quiet, petted and waited on to her heart’s content, great plans were discussed and decided on.

Making a Change (part 2)

At home his mother sat in her small room, looking out of the window at the ground-glass one just across the ‘well’, and thinking hard.

By the disorderly little breakfast table his wife remained motionless, her chin in her hands, her big eyes staring at nothing, trying to formulate in her weary mind some reliable reason why she should not do what she was thinking of doing. But her mind was too exhausted to serve her properly.

Sleep—sleep—sleep—that was the one thing she wanted. Then his mother could take care of the baby all she wanted to, and Frank could have some peace. . . . Oh, dear! It was time for the child’s bath.

Making a Change (part 1)

‘Waa-a-a-a-a! Waa-a-a-a-aaa!’

Frank Gordins set down his coffee cup so hard that it spilled over into the saucer.

‘Is there no way to stop that child crying?’ he demanded.

‘I do not know of any,’ said his wife, so definitely and politely that the words seemed cut off by machinery.

‘I do,’ said his mother with even more definiteness, but less politeness.

Young Mrs Gordins looked at her mother-in-law from under her delicate level brows, and said nothing. But the weary lines about her eyes deepened; she had been kept awake nearly all night, and for many nights.

So had he. So, as a matter of fact, had his mother. She had not the care of the baby—but lay awake wishing she had.

‘There’s no use talking about it,’ said Julia. ‘If Frank is not satisfied with the child’s mother, he must say so—perhaps we can make a change.’