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Exercise

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Playing The Edge: A New Look At Yoga

Yoga is a living process. The heart of yoga does not lie in visible attainments; it lies in learning and exploring. Learning is a process, a movement, while attainments are static.

By Joel Kramer March 1977
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Mountain And I

To me the most natural form of exercise is running; to run you need no equipment but yourself, you need no shelter but the sky, you need no teacher but your instincts. Your energy goes directly into learning how to move with ease and grace.

By David Royle December 1976
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Well Of Being

Yoga, Breathing And Meditation

Being well, what can we call it? Freedom from physical disturbance, from illness, or from psychological tensions? Is it freedom from illusion and self-imposed limitation? Well-being probably encompasses all of these interrelated conditions as well as others whose reality is unmet as of yet.

By Gayle Garrison June 1976
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

How Does Moving The Body Move The Mind?

Why move? Why persist in it when all my material needs are fulfilled? Is it the playing out, the dance, of neurosis? The urgings of a subtle psychic movement? Why move? Curiosity? There’s something pleasing about motion.

By Rob Gelblum December 1975
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Fasting, Kinda Slowly

I’ve fasted only once. I was with the Minnesota Outward Bound School in Canada and for the three weeks prior to my solo my brigade of ten girls had canoed and portaged from 5 A.M. to 9 P.M. daily — eating an unlimited amount of oatmeal for breakfast, sharing an occasional loaf of doughy bread for lunch, with two bowls of rice apiece for supper. We were always a bit hungry, but the beauty around us filled our souls and generally took our minds off our bellies.

By Kathy October 1974
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Sy’s New York Diary: Amazing Flesh

I read, in the newspaper, about a man who is dragged from his car, knifed repeatedly for the few dollars in his wallet, and left bleeding in the gutter. My mother says her friends don’t go out at night. It’s an old story, old as the city’s tired and dour expression, old as the dry and wrinkled hands of a man trying to remember better days and remembering nothing but bone.

By Sy Safransky June 1974