In Rishikesh, doing our 500-hr yoga teacher training, we learned and practiced karma yoga. We helped the people around us that were less fortunate. I just brought a guitar and gathered all the kids around.
My karma yoga became a dark possession in NYC. I walked off of the plane with only the clothes on my back. Nice looking clothes. Frizzy hair like Post Malone. A black jean jacket and my last pair of roughed-up shell cordovan boots. My phone died. I asked a pedestrian for directions. He was walking slow. He shook his head and began to walk past me, and something both terrifying and exhilarating possessed my body. I learned how to sing Scream-o and Metal on the spot. I've thought about this for hours and days. I began asking anyone who didn't look like they were in a hurry. If I wasn't helped, I screamed like some kind of 6'6 hell-raised demonic entity. Lots of gibberish. I need to brush up on my Latin. This happened about six times before I finally made it to the homeless shelter that I was looking for in Brooklyn seven miles away.
Vetalas?
So, the question is whether or how to bully our bullies. I am hoping that you accept this proposition: I will be the sweetest superdad who does no wrong until they near the age of reason. I must lure them into sports before they develop doubts toward GOD. Then I must become a demon who pushes them beyond their limits repeatedly until they develop a healthy and robust psychopathic work ethic. . .
If and when our children choose to fall from faith (in our religion), we will hold a ceremonial book-burning. "You are now the Kings and Queens of your own mind. Take what is proven and relieve yourself of your false faith."
