Sean Corne opens the ceremony…

… and gets down to the drums.

Saul David Raye leads the prayer.

Hala Khouri, co-founder of Off the Mat, Into the World.

Suzanne Sterling fires things up.

Mia Togo leading asana.

Brock Cahill finds center.

Ally Hamilton opening hearts.

Kia Miller‘s radiant bhakti.

Frank Angiuli of Natural High Lifestyle.

Peace yoga.

Even pirates get their yoga on.

Pre-ceremony moment of silence.

View from City Hall.

But we’re so much better than that. India may be a starting point for this indescribable subset of music, though which system are we discussing? Kirtan, bhajans, Hindustani and Carnatic fall into the general category of what can possibly be described as ‘yogic.’ Do we then contemplate bhangra and Rajasthani folk? I’ve played Asha Bhosle in my classes before — would filmi make for good yoga music? I’m sure it has on some dreamed up bus or train ride in a long Bollywood montage. I just haven’t been brave enough to drop a funked out Mohammed Rafi track during the flow; perhaps the fault is mine alone.

Just as America has immensely altered yoga — like any imports, there are very beneficial and very unfortunate consequences to this — we have created a musical form that really never existed before. With its emphasis on Sanskrit chants directly related to the mantras associated with bhakti yoga, kirtan certainly has its longstanding relationship to yoga. And I’ve talked to a handful of classical Indian musicians who say that their music is their yoga, which makes sense: classical asanas and pranayama were performed at certain times of the day, to attune the yogi to nature’s rhythm. Ragas were invented with the same idea in mind.

There is something more relevant and global at play here, however. While this is hard to picture in today’s constantly shifting and easily downloadable societies, all folk musics shared common qualities. The most predominant is that the songs reflected the culture that the musicians lived in and their natural environment and, not as common but important for our purposes, trance. First, cultures: In his travel masterpiece, The Middle Passage, V.S. Naipaul writes, “No song composed outside Trinidad is calypso. The calypso deals with local incidents, local attitudes, and it does so in a local language. The pure calypso, the best calypso, is incomprehensible to the outsider.”

The curmudgeonly Naipaul cannot be blamed — the text is nearly a half-century old; his point is valid for his time. Calypso is certainly a product of its environment, and is best understood on its home turf. Perhaps this generates my own bias, with the beats and bass of hip-hop being New York inventions. This is why rap is as valid a ‘yoga music’ in my classes as anything. Our streets are sharp, angular and punchy, and the music originating here mimics that architecture. Yet few would consider hip-hop in these terms alongside Jai Uttal and the Mayapuris.

Language and environment are the specifics; trance is global, which is where music and yoga truly meet. The raga is a form of meditation, each piece defined by specific guidelines with room for ‘coloring,’ or improvisation, by the performer. This is why Ravi Shankar and Pran Nath can perform the same alap and each version sounds a world apart. Numerous musical forms seek the same form of meditation, from Gnawa and Voodoo to dub and flamenco — flamenco pre-guitar, when communities would gather and make songs out of thigh slaps, hand claps, foot stomps and voices. This form of meditation, in which the place where what we are doing, where we are doing it and how intently we are focused on the one thing we are accomplishing are the same, is the aim of the yogi: unifying all seemingly disparate elements into one continuous moment.

Sometimes this happens with Krishna Das. Sometimes, A Tribe Called Quest.

Which is why the term ‘yoga music’ seems so fleeting and undesirable. If the point is union, why are we judging the vehicle that carries us there? If I throw a sitar over a beat, does it qualify for this category? If I burn copal instead of Nag Champa, am I fooling myself? It certainly doesn’t feel that way when I’m in the midst of the flow.

Below is a playlist specifically comprised of songs that you’ll never find labeled as ‘yoga,’ all of which have proven themselves perfect for my classes, followed by a video with Strala Yoga owner Tara Stiles in which we discuss these very topics. 

EarthRise Non-Yoga Yoga Playlist

1. Silent Song (EarthRise SoundSystem Remix) – Eccodek
2. Endangered Species (Raeo Remix) – Nickodemus
3. Gone Baby, Don’t Be Long – Erykah Badu
4. Shine – Oum
5. Electric Relaxation – A Tribe Called Quest
6. Embe Ashafergne – Abyssinia Infinite
7. Ivat Idounia Ayasahen – Bombino
8. Tenalle Chegret – Tinariwen
9. A Few Good Words – DJ Center
10. The Tryst – Azam Ali

I was able to snag a few photos and video of 50 before being whisked away to Scène Rachidi to watch an upstart Moroccan vocalist, Oum, blend beautiful strains of jazz, reggae, Moroccan poetics and R&B into a truly unique music before her own tens of thousands. Combine that with Moroccan rock band Hoba Hoba Spirit throwing down at Scène Sidi Bernoussi, and you’d have guessed that the entirety of Morocco ventured outdoors for these free concerts. One of some 50 annual festivals occurring in this pioneering Islamic country, the diversity of Festival de Casablanca serves as a beacon for the future of global citizenry.

Music has brought me to Morocco three times in the past three years, twice in the past month alone. Festivals in Fes and Rabat were outstanding, but neither stood up to the raw energy and forward-thinking mentality of this city which has been long tattooed in the American imagination thanks to the classic anti-German Bogart/Bergman flick. Craftily manipulated in a Burbank studio (and at Van Nuys airport) into World War II-torn African struggling for identity between French and German occupation, the actual identity of Moroccans figured very little into the movie. Like many other Warner Brothers films, Casablanca had a definitive political agenda — one that did not involve Morocco having its own voice.

Yet Morocco has plenty to say. The country that predominantly avoided the Arab Spring thanks to King Mohammed VI’s reforms — a recent initiative passed by 98.5% of voters officially recognizes the Berber language and promotes gender equality — is setting an example for the Arab and American worlds to learn from. While some feel that the government is moving too slowly, that the government moves in the right direction at all is a hopeful sign. Progress is palpable on the streets. The economy is thriving; Mohammed’s focus on infrastructure is apparent throughout cosmopolitan regions; and the promotion of art and culture, both Moroccan and international, is one of the most important steps that any country is taking in forging a global population ready to handle the tasks of this century.

We arrived in Casablanca on Thursday morning, having missed the first evening of festivities. A long delay on the tarmac due to a massive rainstorm and something that smelled like fire, which may have helped to ignite a near fistfight between a Moroccan and Senegalese woman directly above my head, kept us drowsy until a few shots of Arabic espresso juiced my veins. I was bummed to have missed Brazil’s Carlinhos Brown, though excited to check out California reggae band Groundation presenting a Bob Marley tribute concert that night. Moroccan R&B/hip-hop-ish singer Barry kicked off Thursday night with an impressive though postured performance. I had no idea that Yankees hats were a required uniform for any young Moroccan, and Barry played that role to a tee. His crossed arms and fake limp were unnecessary accoutrements awkwardly adorning an otherwise excellent show. Dude can sing, and well, his music playful and solid. Hearing flow in Arabic is immensely interesting, and while he may be rapping about his pet cat doing cartwheels or, hopefully, something intriguingly political and social, he’s got the musicality down.

Groundation is an epic live band. Being backstage is always a trip, as you see the deities on stage as the humans they really are. Harrison Stafford, the group’s confident and forthright lead singer, nodded hello before I even introduced myself, and we chatted easily for a few minutes before I sat down for an actual interview. On record, he sounds like a 60-year-old Jamaican man who’s been hitting the chalice since age three. In person his patois is subdued; you can immediately landmark his accent as Rastafied Northern Californian. There are few bands that I would imagine could seriously pull off an entire hour of Bob Marley songs (this show was part of the group’s annual tribute series), yet they had just enough Nesta and just enough Groundation to make it unique and sonically incredible. The only tragedy of the evening is that Afrocubism was simultaneously playing across town, and given that Casablanca traffic is somewhat like Soho on a Saturday night, though with absolutely no regard for things like traffic lights or pedestrians, I had to choose my venues smartly. By the time 1:15 am rolled around, I was not upset by my decision.

It may have taken a savvy business mind 62 years to think of it, yet we had no qualms with eating at Rick’s Café on Friday afternoon. Having spent an entire morning shooting video and photos in the souk, as well as being handily accosted by a group of Berber men trying to sell carpets — if this were my first time, I might have been taken in by their undeniable charms — Paul and I met up with the crew at Rick’s, which opened up in 2004 and plays Casablanca on loop in the upstairs bar. It was here that I got to sit with the aforementioned Oum for a chat (the subject of another article). After spending a few challenging minutes explaining to the waiter that no chicken is not vegetarian, no fish is not vegetarian, no not even shrimp, I had a wonderful plate of vegetables and pasta that was really an assortment of whatever non-meat offerings they already had on the menu.

That night the venue choice was easy: Scène Rachidi. I’ve been a fan of the South African hip-hop band, Tumi and the Volume, for years. I had not planned an interview ahead of time. Walking into the backstage area, the press liaison asked if we wanted to talk to Tumi. My compatriot at the moment, Jet’s Miki Turner, said yes, and I was thankful that my iPhone is also a voice recorder. Tumi has a sharp intellectual slant tempered by a commendable ability to write outstanding hooks; during his show, he had no problem leading thousands of Moroccan into call-and-response vocal parts. Speaking of hooks, I was the first time I heard ‘Floor’ and ‘Bus Stop Confessions’ from Tumi and the Volume. The band’s latest, Pick a Dream, forgoes much of the poetry for songwriting, which is a marker of the band’s natural progression. Turning around in the photo pit to watch hundreds of teens pressed against the gate yelling ‘I can’t decide if it’s the money,’ while Tumi replied ‘that got the people out of the control,’ is an image that will not be quickly forgotten.

Moroccan concert security is appreciatively lax. Guards do their job with a smile, firm and not obnoxious, traits rare at American concerts. I’ve been manhandled in the photo area simply for being a photographer. In Morocco, guards are too busy singing along to pay too much attention to what I’m doing. So when the enormously popular Gnawa musician Maâlem Mahmoud Guinea and his outfit of young acolytes were leaving their tent, I decided to trail them through the side-of-stage corridor, up the ramp and onto the stage. Instead of cutting me off, the head security guard showed me a good spot to stand. This is something that would have gotten me a fist and/or elbow and an ejection from most any American venue. Maâlem is what happens when you give Jimmy Page a sintir and hand qaraqib to six John Bonhams. Gnawa music is the trance-inducing folk sound of Morocco, rightfully considered one of the harbingers of American blues. When two-dozen military guards poured into the crowd as spectators alongside the thousands of youthful fans, I knew this music truly cuts across any boundaries in Morocco.

Saturday night was going to be a challenge. While I had to pass through two extra layers of security to get to 50′s backstage area, I still never once received an evil glare. Earlier that day with a member of 50′s management was another story, as my questioning of why journalists were only ‘allowed’ to ask the emcee certain questions was met with immediate confrontation, until he found out I was interviewing him for an edition of Rolling Stone. This did not bode badly for 50, whom I found honest and eloquent. Sure, he hyped himself (‘I’m one of the few artists who can afford to live that lifestyle [portrayed in hip-hop videos]‘), but I suppose if you sell 12 million copies of your debut, you can afford to be. I only was able to catch three of his live songs before heading to once again to Scène Rachidi to check out Oum. In true American rap fashion, he went on a half-hour late (his crew was setting up DJ equipment 15 minutes after start time). As for those three songs, however, I knew why 60 or 100 or 200 thousand people showed up. Hip-hop writer Shaheem Reid, who was in 50′s van, later told me that some 5,000 kids would not let the entourage leave. One teen threw himself onto the van, screaming ’50 Cent is my life!’ According to a member of 50′s crew on the flight back to New York, it was the second craziest show of his career. Angola still held the top spot.

It was fitting to conclude my journey to Casablanca watching Oum present songs from her upcoming album, Sweerty, which includes an immigration-themed song with Brooklyn-based Ghana rapper Blitz the Ambassador that is currently blowing up Moroccan radio. Oum’s self-produced debut, Lik’Oum, has garnered her major accolades as an Arabic visionary (and over 67,000 Facebook fans). You can hear her influences in her music, from Billie Holiday and Erykah Badu to Moroccan great Malouma Mint El Maidah (whose album, Nour, has spent much time in my iPod) and the late South African legend, Miriam Makeba. Even after being nearly assaulted for my press badge in the parking lot behind 50′s stage, we were able to catch the last four songs of Oum’s performance. The stark contrast between his and her crowd was instantly apparent. It was the difference between chewing a bundle of khat and indulging in the silky strains of strong Moroccan hashish. The latter is a fitting metaphor for the jazz-inflected strains of Oum’s music, the singer that night brightly adorned in a yellow Badu headwrap and dress, a splash of orange tastefully circling the collar. Her voice draws you in, her ease and comfort on stage makes it hard to look away. I became an instant fan.

In this mellow mood I reflected on the whirlwind three days in Casablanca. After the set a local journalist packed a heady mix of hash and tobacco, a European habit that I never quite understood. The rough leaf scratched the back of my untrained throat — sometimes you take the sweet with a tinge of sour. This truism applies to people as well as nations. Coming from a country experiencing some of the bitterest social and political posturing in American history, I lavished in the sweet of a Morocco that is comfortable with correcting stupid mistakes, eerily similar to problems that our leaders can’t stop creating. These issues have to do with listening to the people, opening up to the world outside while solidifying internal strengths. No land ever was or will be an Eden, but Morocco is doing a damn fine job at making its case.

My trio of confused and slightly irritated journalists ended up taking a two-hour drive through the desert to a new super hammam on a mountainside. For roughly $40, I sat in a “whirlpool” for 15 minutes (a large bathtub with jet streams), was at the receiving end of a powerful fire hose for my “massage,” went into a “steam room” that was carved out of cave, and ended the session by soaking in a sulfur pool. It was a pretty amazing experience; I was buzzing for two days after. Still, I knew that it was not what I was looking for.

I’ve been to incredible baths in Budapest and frightening dungeons in Brooklyn, but like any good traveler I wanted what my friends had had. Better still, I wanted something my own. Three turned out to be a charm, however, as my last journey to North Africa brought with it a jackpot.

I could have paid $150 to get a complete spa service at a luxury hammam near my Casablanca hotel earlier this month. Then a friend suggested we head to her local hammam, Aya. After dropping us off, my (different) trio paid 60 dirhams apiece ($7.52) for 45 incredible minutes—if roots was what we wanted, roots we got. After our gracious hosts dealt with the fact that I couldn’t communicate in French, much less Arabic, we were led into a sauna before being brought to a marble table. The lithe masseuse put a scrub pad over his hand, doused us with argan oil soap, and rubbed six layers of what I thought was necessary skin from my surface. In between scrubs he would throw in a quick yoga-type assisted stretch, my muscles softening as he deeply rotated my joints. After the assault on my dead skin cells was over, he dumped industrial-size buckets of lukewarm water over my entire body. The River Jordan had nothing on this guy.

Argan oil. I was told to find a hammam that used this crucial ingredient. The argan tree is endemic to Morocco, nearly decimated until a few years ago when Moroccans realized that a burgeoning industry was dependent on it. Unesco put the species on its list and today argan trees are protected while happy consumers are shelling out moolah for the imported oil in the States. My friend and acupuncturist Bianca Beldini had a similar revelation regarding argan oil after a hop over from Spain lead to a life-altering discovery. Soon afterwards she co-founded Arganica alongside fellow healer Jodie Tassello.

Purchasing their argan oil from a women’s cooperative (video below), Beldini was amazed by the medicinal properties of this nut. Not only is the edible version said to help lower cholesterol and keep the circulatory system flowing—and, I must add, it is delicious—cosmetic grade argan oil is touted as “anti-aging.” While I’m always suspicious of that term for a number of reasons, I’ve been using the oil since I returned home, and my skin feels wonderful.

For Beldini, the magic addition is squalene. “One unique property of Arganica is that the composition of our argan oil is high in botanically sourced squalene. Squalene has a chemical similarity to human skin sebum. So, it is essentially ‘like feeding like.’ Our skin is our armor against a world of environmental pollution, food degradation and stress and it needs to be nourished in order to stay healthy.” As an acupuncturist, she has also found the oil’s anti-inflammatory effects beneficial, and says it “works wonders on softening scar tissue.”

I’m personally inclined to have some science in my branding, making Tassello’s role in Arganica key. A research scientist whose resume includes impressive institutions, The Rockefeller University and Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Institute, she has specialized in anti-cancer and anti-viral properties. Both argan oil and frankincense are said to exhibit these qualities, comprising the bulk of the Arganica blend. So while I’ll be returning to Hammam Aya at the next opportunity, it’s nice to know Americans are catching on to this skin science.

Last time I saw Ricky I did hand over a dollar, and he commented on my tattoos, like he did the last time I flipped him change. Four seats down from me another guy wasn’t as understanding. As Ricky approached, the dude started heckling him. At first I thought it was a joke. Ricky drew closer; the guy’s badgering, louder. “You ain’t homeless man, quit wasting all of our time.” He looked at the people seated around him for verification, as weak-minded people often do. Having others justify your idiocy is a universal trait.

Ricky sidled by, shrugging his shoulders. Dude grew vehement. Ricky replied with a frustrated, “I’m just trying to feed my daughter, man.” Dude shook his head in mock laughter, like he was spitting week-old phlegm. Whether or not Ricky’s story was true, his look of despair was genuine. Hey man, this isn’t easy. Why do you have to make it harder?

As Ricky exited, dude shook his head, still clamoring for attention. Turns to the two women next to him, tries to strike up a conversation. As the doors were closing, another homeless man enters at the other end of the car. Whereas Ricky was young and vibrant, albeit pretty banged up, this man was in no shape anyone would call healthy. His quiet voice made some proclamation before he limped across the floor. This nearly sets off dude in a rage. As this second man draws near, dude gets snarky: “Nah, sorry buddy, we just gave to your friend, you’re out of luck.” This man doesn’t muster a reply. Like the rest of us, he probably had no clue what he was talking about.

Dude chuckles to himself, still wanting confirmation from the women on his left. He finds sympathetic ears across the aisle in an older man, and they chat about something. I’m beyond disgusted at this point. As I said, we might not all be able to give every time, but to mock the homeless?

Then an interesting thing happened. At the next three stops, one of the three people dude tried to wrangle into his juvenile stupidity exit the train. As they pass, he looks up and says goodbye, followed by ‘God bless you.’ This threw me for a loop. Whose god was he talking about? The god of people that he deemed of his class, i.e. not homeless and in need of help? The god that was imagined for working class people who can afford the subway, on their way to work without begging?

I’m not super knowledgeable about the more popular religions in America, which is what I’m guessing he was referencing, given the small cross dangling around his neck. My studies have always focused on philosophies that don’t consider gods that important, but direct attention to the human side. At root, however, there are universal concepts that also apply to the Christian and Catholic faiths: charity, compassion and empathy. And from what I recall, those things are to be offered without exception, not only to people who you want to offer them to. If that’s your way, then your religion isn’t really working—at least, you’re not working for your religion.

What pleasure would we possibly take from harassing people with less than we have? If Ricky is really a drug addict or alcoholic seeking a fix—my educated guess is that this dude was guessing such—is making fun of him going to help? And what if that’s not the case? What if he’s an 18-year-old in a tough spot? You can offer to spoon a shovelful out. Or you can ignore him, as many do. But kicking dirt onto him while he’s already down is only proving how deep in the mud you’re already bogged.

Here is the list with download links for each song from my most recent mixtape, ‘Wanderlust Flow.’

1. Straight Upfront – Djosos Krost
2. Combination (Voltergeist Remix) – Jali Bakary Konteh
3. Divers (The Funky Lowlives’ Low Immersion Dub) – Boozoo Bajou
4. Focus on Sight – Thievery Corporation
5. La Boquilla (Julius Sylvest vs. Copia Doble “Bounce” Remix) – Bomba Estéreo
6. Cumbion Mountain (Cico Sonido & Toy Selecta) – Up, Bustle & Out
7. Cumbia Inferno (Toti & Andy Loop Fat Beat Remix) – La Troba Kung-Fú
8. La Inconformable (Original Mix) – The Binary Cumbia Orchestra
9. Cinammon Girl in the Sun – [dunkelbunt] (feat. Boban I Marko Markovic Orkestar)
10. Gazal – Drumspyder
11. Borino Oro – Shantel
12. Jadoo – Sukshinder Shinda
13. Wansagain – Dactha Chando
14. Whirling Within – Desert Dwellers
15. Second and Dryades – Galactic

While you may have thought this was going to be an article about stretches you can do while in that 11′ wide seat for two to twenty-two hours (at 6′ 4″ tall, I’ve thought about and tried many), I’d rather deal with an even more challenging place to apply your yoga: boarding the plane. Nowhere outside of rush hour Holland Tunnel traffic do people try (and succeed) at being so ineloquent and demanding while microscopically inching forward.

A constant traveler, I’ve born witness to this fiasco innumerable times. While not widely known (due to faulty Italian translation), Dante placed the airport boarding process in the eighth circle of hell, with only nurses who smoke cigarettes outside of hospital entranceways and Glenn Beck below it. Thing is — and we all know this — that plane is not going anywhere until everyone boards. By crowding the imaginary ‘line’ snaking into the plane, rushing slows things down. The only actual concern anyone actually has is not getting overhead compartment space, which is only really a concern because a select number of ‘special’ travelers disregard the pleas of only placing one bag there and not using the space for things like jackets.

Airports are the necessary evil of air travel, and most every aspect of them riddles us with anxiety. For too long have I been caught in this monstrosity of human relationships. I’ve stressed myself out in cab rides en route for this one single process, even more than going through the security checkpoint. Being that the luggage carousel is included in Dante’s seventh layer, I always travel carry-on. Worse case scenario is that an attendant gate checks your bag and you receive it as soon upon exiting (another stress-inducing rat race).

This looked to be the case on a recent flight from Las Vegas to Los Angeles. I had stopped in the desert city to visit my father, and the forty-minute flight to LA was sold out. Tensions were Code Red as everyone travels carry-on here, and it was at that moment I decided to do my yoga. I was in the last group and refused to stress the situation. I’d have to gate check and that was that.

I found my newfound peace enjoyable, watching veins pop out of my fellow traveler’s necks as they agonizingly clutched handbags. It was like when I remember to slow down on subway platforms. You notice what an idiot you must look like in that rush to nowhere through the flagrant tendencies of others. I calmly walked onto the plane as the inevitable happened: the attendant announced that overhead space was full. No big deal. My seat would be waiting for me.

The couple crammed in front of me proceeded to turn their heads as if the attendant were not standing right in front of them. As the woman passed, the attendant asked “Excuse me, do you speak English?” She was not being sarcastic; she thought they hadn’t understood. The woman turned and laughed. “Of course I speak English.” The attendant re-explained, but the woman, her stressed-out husband already well scurried up the aisle, brushed it aside. “Oh, that’s ok, we’ll check above our seats.”

The nonplussed attendant let them pass, then turned to calm and relaxed Derek, a person I was just meeting myself in such a situation. She smiled and looked at my bag, and then said, “You know what, let me check something.” She opened two compartments in first class, reconfigured some things, and told me to slide my bag in. I thanked her, walked to my seat and turned on my Kindle. A few moments later, the couple returned to gate check their bags. I contemplated telling them what they had missed while being in such a rush, but each learns in their own time. I’ve too have sped by simple opportunities in plain sight, a trend that I hope is also behind me.

Last week I was honored to be one of the 100 or so fitness professionals brought to Whistler, British Columbia, as part of apparel company Lululemon’s Ambassador Summit 2011. Each store picks out regional instructors — yoga, spin, trainers, runners, skiers, studio owners — to be an ‘ambassador’ for a set period of time, which involves being in a photo shoot for that store, teaching community events and receiving a healthy amount of Lululemon clothing. This idea evolved into the Summit, which attempted (and succeeded) at uniting the company’s broad community in one four-day series of workshops, networking and, being in Whistler, whatever winter sport you chose. I went with snowshoeing.

Living in a time when social networking is a crucial component of modern business, what fascinated me most about Lululemon, a publicly traded company (doing well at $91/share), is that in lieu of conducting market research board members produce events like the Summit. The company has struck a nice balance between maintaining strong brand identity while offering individual stores a great degree of flexibility: in being able to choose ambassadors, stock local instructors’ DVDs and info, even down to painting the walls whatever colors employees choose (something that doesn’t always go so well, I found out). More than anything, executives honor and know the value of one essential quality so often denied in top-down business organizations: creativity.

Like in college, I gained more from the Summit outside of the classroom, when meeting new friends and creating bonds, than during the sessions themselves. They were indeed powerful, though I’m not a huge fan of the Landmark Forum formula. Still, a number of people profited from those presentations, so I understand the value. My favorite was called Design Creation, where we broke up into ten teams to dream up new design features that we, as fitness professionals, wanted to manifest. Most importantly, we were told to not let outrageous ideas remain silent. The moderator held up her iPhone and remarked that 50 years ago such technology seemed impossible, making me recall the Huxley almost-quote cited above.

This is where innovation happens. You create the conditions for people to feel comfortable creating and take notes. Then you make the impossible a reality.

Out of respect for the company, I won’t share some of the more ‘attainable’ ideas that were presented, often with much laughter and sometimes music. But a few that the team I was part of are worth noting, like a yoga pant that pulls lactic acid from your hips while you practice and a mat that does yoga for you. Who knows, maybe the hovering gym bag that floats effortlessly beside you while you walk to the club is closer than we think.

Community has always been an important component of creating enjoyable work environments; it defines the difference between having a job that you do for money and being involved in a career that you love. The community has to be actual, however, not a fictionalized ideology lip-serviced by executives that never plays out in actuality. This involves dialogues between participants regardless of job title or company role, in which every opinion is taken into consideration and no voice is silenced. I’ve seen examples of this in smaller, independent companies, where success is possible only by input from every person involved. Seeing it occur in a multi-billion dollar company is a powerful indicator that ‘business as usual’ need not be the mantra that continues to fuel the modern mindset. Of course, you have to start with a foundation worth building upon, and the gap between what’s worth creating and frivolous expenditure is wide and sometimes hard to see. Fortunately, some people are getting it right.