| Who Am I? |
| Cougar Press PO Box 894 Meadview AZ 86444 |
| Yoga for Carnivores by Jay Dyck |
I am Jay Dyck. I am sixty-two years old. For what it's worth, I attribute my health, my survival and
any vestiges of youth to the practice of Yoga.
I first studied Yoga from the book by Vishnudevananda, who was the devotee of Sivananda. In the
ancient language of the Indian Yogis, “ananda” means bliss. The three members of the Hindu trinity
are Siva, Vishu and Brahma.
Siva (pronounced shee-vuh) is the god of destruction. Hence, the name Sivananda can be translated
as “the bliss of destruction.” Hardly an appropriate name for one thought to be a great teacher of
wisdom and health, one might think. However, please, be patient with my clumsy analysis.
Vishnu is the god of Preservation. So, Vishnudevananda’s name might be taken as a reference to “the
bliss of preservation.” By this, I do not mean the joy of canning fruits and vegetables.
Creation, preservation and destruction are concepts introduced by ancient philosophers in an attempt
to understand how the universe works.
For this website, I considered adopting the name Brahmananda, which can be crudely rendered as
“the bliss of creation.” In truth, I do wallow in the bliss of creation, whether it be literary expression,
architectural construction, musical composition, uninhibited dance, visual art or biological orgasm.
But my name is Jay Dyck, and I guess I am stuck with it. I am the author of the novel, Black
Mountain Lady, as well as a lot of poetry, much of which can be found in the collection, Blue Wind.
I have pursued Yoga now for forty-four years. I first learned of it when I was eighteen. I lived then in
Southern California. Some of my surfer buddies dabbled in the lessons of Paramahansa Yogananda
that were offered at the Self Realization Fellowship in Encinitas. SRF sits on a high cliff overlooking
the Pacific Ocean. The excellent waves just below the retreat have earned the point the name that is
immortalized in the words of the song by the Beachboys, “Surfin’ USA…you’ll catch’em surfin’ at
Swami’s…”
Yogananda was the swami who used to row his boat out beyond the breakers. He passed away before
I ever cracked a tube. I took the correspondence course offered by SRF for a year. A lot of what I
learned was simple, practical advice. The course included a regimen of physical exercises, as well as
programs of breathing and meditating.
However, my strongest memory of those early lessons was the time I went with a friend to a group
meditation at the ashram.
The pure white ashram with its golden minarets can be seen for miles across the water from Del Mar
to the south, or Oceanside to the north. Within the stucco walls one finds serene gardens. Monks
dwell within the cloister. That night, we went into a room where many were gathered in silent
meditation.
I was raised a Catholic, and I had been in many a church, both Catholic, Anglican, Episcopal and
Presbyterian. I had knelt in a living room many times while an old aunt led us in the recitation of the
rosary. I had bowed my head over many a meal while grace was said by Christians of various
sincerity, but never had I felt anything like what I experienced when I walked into that room of silent
contemplation.
You could cut it with a knife! The vibration welling within that chamber was so intense and so
tangible that I could feel it in my body, and it assured me that these people, these students and
followers of a dead Indian, were truly on to something.
After I completed a year of training with the correspondence course, I was invited to be initiated. The
letter that contained this invitation told me that, from now on, this would be my religion.
Well, oh dear, this little surfer had been assured a year earlier that the course was open to anyone of
any faith. The techniques of meditation that I was to learn would only deepen my fidelity. Now it
seemed that I would need to convert. I would have to become a Hindu before further progress in
Kriya and awareness of Kundalini could be made.
For the good little Catholic surfer, tangible vibrations suddenly were only temptations of heresy. I
dropped the course.
But I didn’t quit doing yoga. Santa Claus had left a slim paperback introduction to the basics of
Hatha in my stocking the previous Christmas. My friends and I began to try the positions.
any vestiges of youth to the practice of Yoga.
I first studied Yoga from the book by Vishnudevananda, who was the devotee of Sivananda. In the
ancient language of the Indian Yogis, “ananda” means bliss. The three members of the Hindu trinity
are Siva, Vishu and Brahma.
Siva (pronounced shee-vuh) is the god of destruction. Hence, the name Sivananda can be translated
as “the bliss of destruction.” Hardly an appropriate name for one thought to be a great teacher of
wisdom and health, one might think. However, please, be patient with my clumsy analysis.
Vishnu is the god of Preservation. So, Vishnudevananda’s name might be taken as a reference to “the
bliss of preservation.” By this, I do not mean the joy of canning fruits and vegetables.
Creation, preservation and destruction are concepts introduced by ancient philosophers in an attempt
to understand how the universe works.
For this website, I considered adopting the name Brahmananda, which can be crudely rendered as
“the bliss of creation.” In truth, I do wallow in the bliss of creation, whether it be literary expression,
architectural construction, musical composition, uninhibited dance, visual art or biological orgasm.
But my name is Jay Dyck, and I guess I am stuck with it. I am the author of the novel, Black
Mountain Lady, as well as a lot of poetry, much of which can be found in the collection, Blue Wind.
I have pursued Yoga now for forty-four years. I first learned of it when I was eighteen. I lived then in
Southern California. Some of my surfer buddies dabbled in the lessons of Paramahansa Yogananda
that were offered at the Self Realization Fellowship in Encinitas. SRF sits on a high cliff overlooking
the Pacific Ocean. The excellent waves just below the retreat have earned the point the name that is
immortalized in the words of the song by the Beachboys, “Surfin’ USA…you’ll catch’em surfin’ at
Swami’s…”
Yogananda was the swami who used to row his boat out beyond the breakers. He passed away before
I ever cracked a tube. I took the correspondence course offered by SRF for a year. A lot of what I
learned was simple, practical advice. The course included a regimen of physical exercises, as well as
programs of breathing and meditating.
However, my strongest memory of those early lessons was the time I went with a friend to a group
meditation at the ashram.
The pure white ashram with its golden minarets can be seen for miles across the water from Del Mar
to the south, or Oceanside to the north. Within the stucco walls one finds serene gardens. Monks
dwell within the cloister. That night, we went into a room where many were gathered in silent
meditation.
I was raised a Catholic, and I had been in many a church, both Catholic, Anglican, Episcopal and
Presbyterian. I had knelt in a living room many times while an old aunt led us in the recitation of the
rosary. I had bowed my head over many a meal while grace was said by Christians of various
sincerity, but never had I felt anything like what I experienced when I walked into that room of silent
contemplation.
You could cut it with a knife! The vibration welling within that chamber was so intense and so
tangible that I could feel it in my body, and it assured me that these people, these students and
followers of a dead Indian, were truly on to something.
After I completed a year of training with the correspondence course, I was invited to be initiated. The
letter that contained this invitation told me that, from now on, this would be my religion.
Well, oh dear, this little surfer had been assured a year earlier that the course was open to anyone of
any faith. The techniques of meditation that I was to learn would only deepen my fidelity. Now it
seemed that I would need to convert. I would have to become a Hindu before further progress in
Kriya and awareness of Kundalini could be made.
For the good little Catholic surfer, tangible vibrations suddenly were only temptations of heresy. I
dropped the course.
But I didn’t quit doing yoga. Santa Claus had left a slim paperback introduction to the basics of
Hatha in my stocking the previous Christmas. My friends and I began to try the positions.