The now infamous Netflix documentary, Wild Wild Country, which follows the rise and fall of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (a.k.a. Osho) just won an Emmy. It was visually stunning with red robed hippies set against the quiet countryside of Oregon. Towards the beginning, directors Chapman and Maclain Way splice group meditations, these playful thirty-somethings running around mountains, and accounts of people who feel like they’ve found their real family. But it goes downhill fast. Tiers of power emerge. Cliques form. And the rehearsals to get closer to the center of it all spiral out of control. Corruption and violence become the center story. And people that were all peace-love have to literally flee the FBI. Jaw-dropping as it was, something felt oddly familiar for me. Cult narratives have been having a bit of a cultural moment for the past year, and despite their showcased insanity, like in Wild Wild Country, something about them speaks more softly to us. The obviousness of “I would never join something like that” is paired with the quieter, less-certain question of “But would I?” and also, in a way “Have I?” * I was 18 years old when, I stumbled into a psychic storefront on 3rd Avenue in Manhattan. It had all the necessary crystals, pink neon signs, paisley drapes, and a stoic woman awaiting her next customer. The unmemorable reading lasted about 10 minutes, but afterwards, this person whom I had only just met, confessed that something was disturbing my energy. “You’re blocked,” she said flatly. It was deep and in my best interest to get it removed, else I be plagued with this mysterious negativity. That same year, I started investing much of my time and money into a Manhattan yoga studio. I had just moved to New York City from the Connecticut suburbs, and after months of falling for guys who didn’t want a relationship, signing up with too many street canvassers, and feeling the clinging tendrils of a closeted teenage depression — this became a place where I began to find myself home. A space where the dim lights and total anonymity gave me a sense of permission. A spaciousness to be; in sweat and skin and breath and bone. The classes were generally the same format and filled with loud, collective sighs. Those sighs were everything to me. For the next few years, I practiced at a lot of different studios, but this one always kept its refuge-like nature for me. “Where have I been?” I would ask myself 5 minutes into returning from months away. Why had I left the nest? Lots of places can feel like that, I think. There’s lots that can hold us when we are our most vulnerable; be it a song, friend or womb. Six years after moving to the city, and much more on my own feet, I signed up for their teacher training. It was ten weekends long, during which time I spent many hours in and around this space and met four dozen others like me, who had for years felt the wood floors to be a haven. Those ten weeks had a chemistry. They were host to something I felt was brand new inside of me. A stir, if you will, towards a better me. I walked out of it feeling like I had an actual set of new eyeballs, and a mended heart — though I didn’t much question the deceptive ways in which I had arrived. * This arc of awakening is not unique. It is a narrative I have heard repeated back to me by others a lot. I ended up teaching a whole ton of yoga, and have since worked professionally with yoga and wellness brands and spaces. It’s been several years since this training, and I’ve heard similar versions of my own story everywhere. This story of coming home, of waking up, of feeling like you finally belong somewhere — just swap out the places and the characters, trade one guru for another. This once excited me. Now I see an expected pattern. I have come to see another pattern in the journey — one of corrupted spiritual leadership. It’s a trend of charismatic (mostly) men asserting a supposedly benevolent influence over a group of people that — somewhere along the line — morphs into a violent dominance. It’s Wild Wild Country. It’s the Bikram Yoga story. Or the fall of Anusara Yoga. Or the recent forthcomings from the Shambhala community. Or the deep history of Kripalu. I could keep going. I think a lot about these two narratives — that of the seeking, and that of the sought — and where they converge. With my yoga training several years behind me, a deeper story from that community has come into clarity. * Of all the time I spent in that studio, I never did meet the owner. But his power, authority, and commitment requirements trickled down. I inferred a crookedness by way of the managers, and from friends I made during the training who felt like strangers once they upped the ranks. Schedules were hidden from newer teachers, while more favored, senior teachers were silently discouraged from practicing elsewhere. None of it felt safe to question, and the collective silence on the odd politics and the reasons for the managers’ severe stress felt protective of something, or someone. Looking back, for a space that encouraged finding your true self, it actually smelled a lot like a performance. During my training, about halfway through, the majority of us, mostly in our 20’s, participated in what is infamously just known as “the weekend.” During part of it, we did a real-deal, recorded-by-Osho meditation. It was even administered by two people wearing that signature red garb(!). Later, we underwent a series of exercises that broke us down both physically and emotionally, followed by a session of revealing group shares that brought us into our “truth.” Seated in a large circle on those same wood floors, we one by one stood in the center to broadcast a secret, or “truth” to the group. Stories of deep pain and trauma poured forth. These shares, or admissions, were deeply personal by design. There was little room to opt out, and absolutely no qualified support to process what was coming up. At the time, there was no questioning the method. But now I think a lot about the reason for those experiences, and what they actually achieved. Can truth really be accessed by the recorded instructions of a man like Osho, someone capable of so much terror? I think about how, in that pressured environment, we were brought to real tears. Into a Tony Robbins sense of transformation; broken down to be built up in a new image. But what were those tears? And who owned that new image? What was I even feeling? Was it me, this new person, or the manipulated-me? I know that it felt very real. After the “weekend,” there were those who were in the room, and those who weren’t. There became those who stayed to clean the bathrooms, and those who didn’t. I wonder if what had brought us into “togetherness” secretly just bred a stronger sense of the “other.” To this day, and I have met hundreds of people who have gone through this, I have never heard about these experiences talked about openly, or written about publically. * In any controlled environment, there are systems of groupthink and conditioned behaviors that individuals have very little actual control over. It is human to change our behaviors based on group dynamics — especially groups we believe we can benefit from. It is human to say yes when one feels unsafe, or out of reach. It’s Lord Of The Flies. Or junior high school. Or the unquestionable guru. The familiar arc of the spiritual seeker who found themselves in the nest begins with hope and sometimes real healing — after all, for years, that particular studio felt like a home to me, providing a sanctuary for my most confused self. But how do we synthesize an experience of healing inside an organization that we see in hindsight to be harmful? The lines defining our personal agency get muddy. The stories we tell ourselves change. Still, breathing together is healing. Eating together is medicine. Listening to music or practicing yoga together is empowering. Community and connection are often what support us in being and feeling ourselves. So how do we maintain autonomy and still participate fully in healthy group dynamics? How can we be bear witness to our own participation? And how do we remain vigilant, even and especially when we’re feeling vulnerable? The storefront psychic I stepped into many years back smells like obvious BS now, but it had haunted me for a long time. My depression was not totally absolved, and I was still finding my footing in a new place. I had wondered if there was even a little something to her calling out my “blocked” energy. She had wanted $75 to do a full cleansing ritual, and then I’d feel free. It was the only way, she said, but I never went back. Although a storefront psychic is no cult leader, the abuse of power and the manipulation of vulnerable people is the same. I don’t practice yoga in studios much these days. Partly because my interest in the gymnastics of it all has waned, but partly because I cannot unsee the power dynamics that play out on subtle levels in many of these spaces. I wrestle with this. Because a piece of me mourns for that person who could give of himself completely. When I do choose to show up, I look for teachers who lead with an invitation, and make space for students to explore the nuances of their own, unique experience. I make clear for myself what it is I want, and seek out folks who are interested in authentic relationships. I still love this practice, and am a lifetime, card-carrying spiritualist. But I feel watchful. Yoga and the self-help industry see profits in the billions of dollars. There are trainings and workshops and ceremonies lined up for miles. And though we’re in a post-Wild Wild Country world, there are also public exposures and private whispers of corrupt leaders at every turn. Osho’s books, after all, still sell. Seeing the patterns have made me cautious of folks with book deals and podiums and “answers.” I am weary of spiritual leaders in power or with gazillions of followers. Storefront psychics and groupthink are not hard to be swept into. Many yoga studios are designed such that you fold forward and do as you’re told. Now, if someone’s at the front of the room preaching without room for questions, then I’ve got some questions.
