By Bob Rhubart

There's No Place Like Om is not a place to visit if you’re interested in signing over your worldly possessions in exchange for a seat on a passing starship and a gulp of purple Kool-Aid. And Buck Harris isn’t interested in converting you into anything other than a more physically flexible, more relaxed, healthier human being with excellent posture and a maybe a more positive outlook. CC columnist Bob Rhubart investigates the pop culture phenomenon of yoga in Cleveland.

I am flat on my back in a storefront in the Detroit-Shoreway neighborhood, attempting to execute a yoga pose. My left leg is extended above me at something pathetically less than a ninety-degree angle. Buck Harris, whose curriculum vitae includes restauranteur, political candidate, radio talk show host, landscape artist, and certified yoga instructor, assists me in perfecting this pose by grasping my left ankle and gently but firmly stretching my leg toward my head and across the Detroit-Superior Bridge. The experience is made all the more interesting because I have flexibility of a pretzel rod. Buck asks how I’m doing. "Fine," I say. And it’s true. I feel good about myself, despite the tiny voice emanating from deep within my hamstring chakra, saying, "Are you freakin’ KIDDING ME?"

Harris describes yoga as "a spiritual practice with physical benefits." He believes that people come to yoga for its spiritual aspects -- as good a theory as any in an age described by those given to extreme understatement as "unsettling." But in this Near West side neighborhood, that spirituality was a tough sell.

"I had to do a lot of talking to neighborhood people," Harris explains, "to let them know that this was not a cult, that everyone was welcome." The perception among some in the neighborhood was that yoga was a religious practice open only to Hindus or Buddhists. But Harris, a self-described "garden-variety pantheist," assures that There’s No Place Like Om is open to any and all.

To that end Harris’s yoga studio exudes tranquility. A makeshift altar at the rear of the studio displays an eclectic collection of eastern and western religious symbols. "I even have pictures of Jesus, and I’ve got a Star of David. All religions and spiritual beliefs are welcome," Harris says. "I had to do a lot of educating, and I suspect some people still don’t believe me."

But in attending one of Harris’s yoga classes you’ll encounter no religious indoctrination, no cult, no hooded cloaks, no chanting. Well, okay, there’s chanting, but it’s completely voluntary and consists of nothing more than the single syllable "Om," rendered by the entire class in a sonorous rumble at the beginning of each session. The sound, as you find the pitch, sends a pleasing vibration through the throat and up the back of your head.

There’s No Place Like Om is not a place to visit if you’re interested in signing over your worldly possessions in exchange for a seat on a passing starship and a gulp of purple Kool-Aid. And Buck Harris isn’t interested in converting you into anything other than a more physically flexible, more relaxed, healthier human being with excellent posture and a maybe a more positive outlook.

The small group of believers gathered in the studio on this perfect Saturday morning feels like a family, in the sitting-around-the-campfire-singing-Kumbaya sense, as opposed to the let’s-collect-a-bunch-of-AK47s-and-await-the-apocalypse sense. There’s a genuine feeling of community. The class is a mix of men and women, young and old, gay and straight, of every body type and of all levels of yoga experience. The atmosphere is warm, friendly, and totally non-judgmental, which is to say, exactly the opposite of any gym class, sports team, or fitness club you’ve ever avoided.

But make no mistake, while yoga is low-impact in the extreme, it’s a serious workout, particularly for a fifty year-old guy whose 1.33:1 waist-to-inseam ratio makes it difficult for him to see his toes, let alone touch them. Yoga will kick your ass. But it’s a gentle, serene, and altogether pleasant sort of ass-whupping. You leave the studio feeling totally relaxed, and wake up the next morning just sore enough to make you pleasantly aware of long-neglected muscles.

The hour-and-a-quarter yoga class consists of a series of poses, grouped in combinations that form a kind of super slow-mo dance routine. The session begins with easy seated poses and gradually progresses to more strenuous kneeling and standing poses with names like "fish," "lion," "downward facing dog," "upward facing dog" and "dog contemplating a hot shower and a Vicodin." This ancient, ingenious discipline pits muscle groups against each other, stretching one while flexing and tightening the other.

Harris conducts the sessions with sincere warmth and humor, offering encouragement, good-natured chiding, and the occasional groaner of a joke, all delivered in a style that falls somewhere between Mr. Rogers and Rip Taylor. When he’s not demonstrating a pose, he’s assisting participants in aligning their sometimes uncooperative limbs. When dealing with a particularly challenging pose, he will encourage the class to repeat the phrase, "Surrender Dorothy," which must have something to do with the pair of ruby slippers always resting on the shoe rack near the front door.

The session winds down with the corpse pose: flat on your back, arms at your sides, palms up, as Harris quietly narrates a kind of guided imagery meditation that focuses on deep, slow, deliberate breathing. You’re muscles unwind like knotted rubber bands. Your body feels like cream cheese melting on a toasted bagel. Trust me, that’s a deeply spiritual experience. If there’s a better way to start a Saturday, let me know. No Place Like Om is located at 5409 Detroit Ave. Call 634-9642 or 409-4161.

by Cool Cleveland contributor Bob Rhubart (brhubart@yahoo.com)

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