It was a cold, New York day in the middle of December, but I was not there. I lay, near death, half-naked in a puddle of my own sweat after completing my fifth-ever Hot Yoga class. When prompted to close my eyes for the final meditation, I was transported to the place where my life found meaning.
That was the day I became a crocodile.
A while back, I promised that I would one day share this crazy tale with you.
Here it is:
The ancient practice of Yoga requires a really strong core, and the ever more elusive ability to control the breath.
I was blessed with neither.
The weak core stemmed from postural issues I developed as a chubby kid, rounding my shoulders in an attempt to divert attention away from my manboobs; a technique I later dubbed, “manboob subterfuge.” The only acknowledgement of my breath prior to that class was following a few, big, Italian, holiday meals in which I noticed I had actually ceased breathing. Together, I enjoyed Yoga as much as foodies enjoy not eating. Pump 105 degrees into the mix and you have a recipe for slow torture.
I was ready to quit the practice altogether until I asked myself that fateful question: Could marijuana make this better? Given the answer to this question had very rarely yielded a “no” in the past, I decided to let it rip—and rip I did.
Spoiler:
Smoking weed before that class did not give me magical, Yogi superpowers. However, it did gift me the ability to calmly focus on my breath, which, in contrast to the ‘get me the fuck out of here’ level of calm that had encompassed my mind classes prior, caused me to completely lose my sense of self for the entire 90 minutes. Before I knew it, we had reached the final pose in which practitioners lay on their backs, close their eyes and let their minds roam.
And roam my mind did.
When I closed my eyes that evening, as clearly as I see the words in this exposè of my sanity—I saw a snout. Peering over the green monstrosity that had replaced my human nose, I waded through tenebrous waters. I surfaced; my eyes and snout settling discreetly upon the water’s horizon. In the distance stood a single gazelle, measuring the shoreline with unease. I resubmerged. Meeting the gazelle at the water’s edge, I gazed upward through a foot of murky water into nervous, black eyes. For a second—all was calm. Then—a flash of white. Next thing I know, I’m dragging my prey downward into the abyss.
“Open your eyes” my instructor prompted.
As a previously sane person, I tried to pretend that what had unfolded on my Yoga mat that night was an aberration. “It was just the weed,” I lobbied with myself. And it was: I was high off my ass bouncing around in a sauna for 90 minutes, what did I expect was going to happen?
Yet it happened.
Rather than discard this obscure experience into the deep, dark file of my mind labeled never happened—as I had done with so many things prior—I ran with it, and here is what I’ve learned:
The day I became a croc I learned that the world is composed of two types of people: Crocodiles, and gazelles.
Gazelles sense danger—subpar relationships, bad habits, dissatisfaction with their career—but lack the faculties necessary to notice and adapt. They aren’t lesser than crocs, they’ve just adopted an incomplete picture of reality; blind spots that cause them to miss certain perils, and encourage them to keep drinking.
Gazelles measure their lives in minutes. They set schedules, parameters, norms, expectations and deadlines, and work their damndest to avoid deviating away from the script. Their desire to control the outcome of the game blinds them from the things that are right in front of them. They’re so afraid to fail that they fail to live.
Crocodiles are the opposite—they notice everything. Their practice in building awareness has yielded such an accurate picture of reality, that they trust they are always where they need to be—and can just be.
In this way, crocodiles are much like Lebron James. Their physical prowess is certainly a factor, but they remain apex predators in their realm because they have become so good at paying attention, that they never make the same mistake twice. The ability to notice and integrate what they learn in practice allows them to not have to think when lights are on. They trust their instincts and just play ball.
The difference between us mortals and Lebron James (aside from him being way bigger and stronger) is that he gets to separate practice and game time—we don’t. We are forced to pay attention to our mind whilst going about our lives—the camera is always rolling. This is hard, especially given how much easier it is to get sucked into an Instagram hole for eight hours at a time. The difficulty of this task is why there are so many more gazelles than crocs in this world. However, it is only when we catch our thoughts and coerce them into a pretty story, that we are fully able to enjoy this life.
The cliche is as true as it ever was: It’s about the journey, not the destination. When we look ahead to our next meal, the next time we can ‘get fucked up,’ retirement etc...we start to build a deleterious relationship with time. In doing so, we start failing to notice what is right in front of us, and what we miss is the journey. The croc plans his days, years and life, but does so knowing that the only thing certain in those plans is that they will change. Not only is he aware that he must adapt to survive, he longs for it.
Man plans, God laughs.
I know this because the day I became a croc, I started to believe. What I noticed that day was that I was in spiritual purgatory: Afraid to develop and follow a faith due to the beguile of western conformity. For western man, conforming has become easier than embracing the ineffability of human existence. Capitalist expectations implore him to chase possessions, which he will find is in direct conflict with his heart telling him that these things will not actually improve his life. He senses danger, but because he is afraid to fall short of what society has told him is important, he plays scared.
The day I became a croc began my transition. It didn’t happen overnight, and is still ongoing, but I’m a lot scalier than I once was. That experience on my Yoga mat taught me the importance of believing in something—whatever gets you through the night. You can believe in the power of John Legend’s voice for all I care (not a bad choice btw). As long as this faith guides you to be kind to others, nobody can judge you—that’s God’s job. This life is a lot more fun when we listen to and communicate with that voice in our head, rather than trying to quell it. That voice has been urging me to notice as much as I can, and you have just read the result of that attention.
To paraphrase the great Carl Jung, if you didn’t know that salt had health benefits, would you still put it on your food? Faith is like salt: It makes the harsh realities of our existence more palatable. Becoming a croc has taught me not judge others because life is fuckin’ hard. Don’t make it harder by forgetting to salt it.
