I’m perched atop a rigid pillow, its edges itchy against my parched skin, my legs crossed in front of me. The room is silent with the exception of a few late arrivals warily creeping toward an open seat. The domed ceiling towers above, its outline traced by four neon green spotlights, bold remnants of the 1980s when the Lotus temple at Satchidananda Ashram was built. Fuchsia and indigo, trimmed in gold leaf, the temple blooms amidst the honey locust trees in the rural enclaves of Buckingham, Virginia.
People come to the ashram for quiet. For peace. For meditation, and ultimately, to connect with the divine. This, according to true believers is the paramount goal of yoga’s eightfold path. My goals while visiting the ashram aren’t quite as zealous, just the ability to focus my thoughts instead of flailing about like a live fish pulled from the water. I’m hoping that the prescribed ashram schedule of three daily meditations—in the morning, noon, and night—will help hone my concentration and calm me down.
