Not knowing what to expect is only half the reason I am so tense. The other half is knowing that I will actually be doing yoga with them. The thought of putting myself through pretzel-like poses with one of the moodiest, most raucous icons on the Billboard charts has been seriously stressing me out since yesterday. As someone with more subdued musical tastes (Natalie Merchant, Dave Mathews Band), I've only read enough about Love to know that she is no Jewel. On the concert circut, she has harassed fans and simulated on one a sex act so lowed that it could have been perceived as a declaration of war by the Christian-rock set. Her outbursts at the media have also been duly noted: At the MTV Video Music Awards, when a Salon reporter asked about her thought on the impeachment trial, the 34-year-old rocker bellowed back, "Are you retarded?" In a recent Spin magazine interview, she voiced her displeasure over Miramax's teaming up with her longtime nemesis Tina Brown: "Someone told me [Brown's] coming out here to head a studio. Not on my f*cking time she's not. She enters the 213 area code, and I'm going to throw her right the f*ck back out."

Still, I resist the urge to flee. After all, Khalsa is the guru of the moment. At Golden Bridge Night Moon, Khalsa's "center for living" opening this month in West Los Angeles, one can sign up for yoga classes as well as twelve-step programs. This past January, a $200-a-head benefit for the center at the Viper Room featured a concert by Love and was attended by everyone from squeaky-clean Tom Hanks to the famously rehabilitated Drew Barrymore. I cannot help thinking, Is this for real? How could a place that was once so drugged out suddenly be so blissed out?

Finally, one of Khalsa's publicists breezes though the door, then Khalsa herself - a petite, slim woman in a long white dress and a turban. Love, I am told, is already on the premesis getting a massage. Someone will call us when she is done. And so we wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Khalsa, who has piercing eyes and a little girls' voice, tells me how Love sought her out about three years ago after shooting The People vs. Larry Flynt and graduating from drug rehab. Love's friend Madonna had gone to Khalsa during her granancy and recommended her. "At the time, I didn't want to take on any more students. But her people kept calling me," explains Khalsa. "I didn't know who she was. I thought she was Courteney Cox.

"Then Courtney herself called and said, 'Can't you come just one time?' I thought, Here's a person who can use yoga and appreciate it. Everyone is doing it to look better, but with her it was more than that. There's something so real about her," says Khalsa. "She says what she thinks. She's come a long way." Love's business partner and friend, Janet Billig, calls. It is time. The four of us take the elvators up to Love's suite and knock. Billig opens the door, but when Love, from behind, spies the entourage, she pulls Khalsa inside and yells, "What the f*ck are all these people doing here!" or something to that effect. I don't honestly remember. I am too stunned. Courtney Love has just slammed the door in my face. The rest of us stand around, feeling pretty awkward, for what seems like an eternity. One of the publicists tries to make me feel better by starting to launch into a monologue about some of the most embarassing moments she had in her past life as a freelance writer. Just as I am ready to leave, Billig, a down-to-earth brunette in T-shirt and sweats, welcomes me in, and the publicists offer to wait in the lobby. As they make their way down the hall, Love screams to them, "Nothing personal! I just don't need so many people in my life right now!"

Before I have the chance to introduce myself, she disappears into the bedroom to make a phone call. I decide to head to the bathroom to change. Still shaken, I throw my clothes on the ground, for the counter space is occupied by a gigantic tray of fruit, which, I later find out, was rejected in a fit because it is not organic. A cigarette butt floats in the toilet.

When I return to the common room, which is oddly devoid of furniture, Billig and Khalsa are sitting on the fuzzy beige carpet smelling tiny vials of essential oils stashed in Love's bag. Billig unscrews a bottle of grapefruit oil and takes a deep whiff. "Mmmm," she says, and passes it on to Khalsa, who does the same. "This smells great," she says, and passes it on to me. "It really does," I say, trying to sound as cheerful as I can for someone who just had a door slammed in her face. Billig is on the next oil. "Smells like Christmas," she says, handing it over to Khalsa, who then passes it under my nose. I nod in polite agreement. We repeat the ritual for what must have been a dozen oils, the remaining scents of which I cannot remember, for my olfactory cells became wasted after the first few rounds.

About ten minutes into our sniff fest, Love returns. "Do you plan on what you take with you, or do you just grab a bunchand go?" Asks halsa. Love, who is in town shooting Man on the MoonM with Jim Carrey, replies that each oil is carefully accounted for - like, this one is great for the long plane rides, she says, joining the circle. Then, to my horror, the oils are passed around again! Grapefruit, pine, rose... By the time we start the yoga class, I have a wretched headache. It must have made me temporarily insane, for I stupidly have the gall to suggest a brief 20-minute session. Love quickly interjects, "Let's do 45."

We begin with a mantra, inhaling deeply between repetitions: Ong Namo Guru Dev Namo (which means, "I bow to that creative energy that lives within myself"). It is evident that Love loves chanting, and that is why she embraces Khalsa's style of yoga, which is called Kundalini and incorporates more chanting and meditation than other forms of yoga. The syllables virtually vibrate from her peach-hued lips, and the full-bodies alto that escapes from them fills the entire room in surround-sound that makes me shiver. She looks almost angelic in her white long johns and top, with wisps of wavy blond hair on her pale, makeup-less complexion, hands in prayer pose.

That's not to say her movements are gentle - which is another reason Kundalini, which literally refers to a seprent coiled at the base of the spine, is a perfect match for Love. The exercises, designed to release that serpent and its energy, are intense; the breathing, noisy. This particular session, Khalsa explains, is the "bright and beautiful" set. It supposedly enhances circulation and brightens the eyes; I am told that performers love doing it before appearing in front of the camera. We roll on our backs, extending our legs above our heads. We sit cross-legged, grinding our torsos in a circular fashion. We place our hands on our shoulders and twist left and right furiously, breathing fiercely, in an epilectic-like fit. We throw our arms to our sides and raise them so our thumbs meet as we chant Sat Nam ("I am truth") over and over and over again. Love attacks each exercise with vigor; she convulses and writhes and explodes.

As I fumble along, I also realize why Khalsa, who is so popular. Her voice is calming; she readjusts your pose so you're doing them exactly right. She makes you feel good. "What she's taught me has made me strong and given me self-respect," says Love, who takes a yogi with her on the road.

Khalsa, who started practicing yoga 28 years ago, doesn't judge her students. She herself studied acting, roamed the country as a hippie, and experimented with LSD and pot before she found yoga. "People come through the door addicted, but I don't tell them to stop. I say just keep doing what you're doing and add yoga to it, and then they find they don't need what they needed before, whether it's alcohol or drugs or sex."

We finish the session meditating in "corpse pose," which looks just the way it sounds, and Khalsa comes around and covers us with a blanket. Several minutes later, when she tells us to rise and closes by bidding us Sat Nam, I am still to self-conscious to feel relaxed. I glance at Love. I'm not sure if she looks brighter, but she ceratinly seems warmer.

She sidles up to Khalsa, puts her arm around her, and squeezes her like a big teddy bear. We chat about how yoga has kept her off drugs ("Did you know I did drugs?" she asks me) and how it has improved her looks. She shows me her new beauty discovery, a jar of cream by Decleor, inviting - no, ordering - me to dab some on my face. She suddenly seems friendly, chatty, and even kind of sweet. I am charmed.

She then turns to talk business with Khalsa. Deciding to quit while I am ahead, I thank them and quickly make my exit. Spirituality may be alive in Hollywood, but there is something fragile about it. As I step back out of Madison Avenue, where money is God (always has been, always will be) and yoga is nothing but a sweat-inducing workout, I finally feel grounded again.

VOGUE, April 1999 By Joanne Chen