Harmony, oneness, sweetness and light . The yoga community, right? Well, yes… and no.

Behind those beatific smiles and that balanced karma lie some cut-throat tribal tendencies.

You see, there are as many schisms in the yoga community as there are splinter groups in the GOP. Never ask the Iyengar folks to flow like Vinyasa, for they are the school of static asanas. Like Goldilocks and her porridge the oh so cool Ashtangis need it not too hot and not too cold, thus they spurn the disciples of Bikram, for whom sweaty workouts in studios of sweltering heat are de rigueur. And God forbid that you should confuse Bikram with its commercial offshoot Moksha, where only some of the poses are repeated twice for others are done thrice.

A motley mix of yoga teachers offers a minefield of potential conflict, rivalled only by a convention of anarcho-communists.

My wife’s an exception though. She learnt a lesson when her Iyengar training was abruptly brought to a close. She was freelancing, riffing on the yoga vibe in a jam session that interspersed Ashtanga among the Yogi Master’s poses. Such improvised Iyengar is verboten. Contamination. “Never again” said her teacher. “You’ve polluted the purity of our practice.” My wife was unceremoniously kicked out. Banned from further participation like a naughty choirboy found smoking in the sacristy.

It took a while but she finally recovered from this trauma. From that time onward she vowed never to be such a blinkered believer herself. Indeed, she went further. She donned the mantle of diplomat and swore she’d downgrade the dogma, transcend the territories, breach the self-imposed boundaries, and cross the chasms of schism. So now she occasionally gathers the guilds under one roof – our roof. She skillfully surfs the cross currents of difference, seeks common ground among the factions and artfully arranges alliances among the bands of balance warriors.

I, however, lack such diplomatic skill. I’m ignorant of the dangers that lurk like snapping jaws beneath the surface – I know they’re there but ne’er can follow their twists and turns. So at these United Nations of Yoga summits I refill glasses with wheatgrass juice, I pass out seaweed snacks or goji berries and I smile a lot, an awful lot. You see, I adopt a temporary and protective vow of silence. To quote Mark Twain, “best to be thought stupid than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt.”

The Yoga Schisms, written by our contributor Jonathan Lomas from Canada.