Puzzle Pieces

It’s been hard for me to write this focus. I’m not sure why. It’s been hard to find the focus. Most times when I sit down to write blogs, which I do often, I ask for inspiration. What am I meant to communicate today? What is the message that wants to come through me? Somehow this experience has been more challenging.

I feel that I’m up against something, a huge breakthrough, and in large part it’s come through writing. I’m working on a book about an adventure I took ten years ago when I met my spiritual mentor. I met him in California and, only months before I remember being in the Hamptons. I was part of a meditation group and there was an Ayurvedic healer who was visiting and he was giving readings, so I scheduled one. He told me that if ever there was reason for me to go to California, I should without hesitation. I did, not remembering his message until later when all the pieces started coming together.

Maybe the challenge of writing this focus is a puzzle that I haven’t yet solved, the pieces not yet coming together. In the days I’ve sat down to write, I’ve explored a great many ideas, some I’ve followed and scrapped. Others never made it to the page. I’ve thought about my relationship to the Hamptons and how I came here as a child visiting my grandparents and had such an idyllic view of the place. And then, how the Hamptons became this completely different place, when I later moved here in my twenties to live with my grandmother who was dying of cancer, and embarked on a journey that would lead me to start teaching yoga, taking the first-ever teacher training program at Yoga Shanti. I’ve thought how different the Hamptons feel this year. Maybe I feel that way every year. I’ve thought about listening and how I’ve been trained to follow the clues that are being presented. I’ve thought about pushing. About how, when the words aren’t coming to the page, all I can do is wait and be ready for when they do. Or keep writing even if I scrap what comes over and over and over again until it finally flows and fits together.

I had a surfing lesson scheduled today. It was honestly the only thing I was really looking forward to doing all weekend. I so desperately wanted to get on that board and be in the ocean—my happy place. I drove to the beach to meet my instructor and not only were there no parking spots, but there was a line that spilled out of the lot that they expected you’d have to wait in for at least a half hour to secure a spot. I pulled up into the queue, but it wasn’t feeling right, so I left. It wasn’t lining up and I couldn’t even communicate with my surf teacher because he has no reception on the beach. I made one more attempt to park at a beach nearby, but that didn’t work either. So, I surrendered.

I made it back home to the house where I’m staying, at my great uncle’s, on Big Fresh Pond in Southampton, where I practically learned to swim. The minute I pulled into his sandy driveway and saw the water through the trees, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be. I was frustrated that the one thing I had been looking forward to hadn’t worked out, but I trusted that this was the experience I was meant to have. It wasn’t time.

It felt like the process of writing. Waiting for the idea. Waiting for the story.

I thought back to being on the mat yesterday. How I’ve really been working on listening more and watching when I just want to get somewhere else. What’s the next thing? How can I do that seemingly impossible pose, right now? Instead of allowing for the process. Just like the process of writing this focus—imperfect and human.

I’m not sure that all the pieces have come together. This puzzle might be one that takes the rest of August, or farther still, but it’s a journey I’m committed to. My mentor calls it following the magical thread. It’s not the easiest path to walk, but it’s a lot more graceful than bulldozing my way to a result, or an outcome leaving a wake of unpleasant consequences behind me.

So here’s to allowing the puzzle pieces to come together no matter what we have to go through in the process.

Atha yoga anushasanam. (Now, yoga.)

I sit to write this in the midst of Summer Solstice: the longest, lightest day of the year, which also happens to be International Yoga Day. Summer feels like a season of abundance—lots of vacation, lots of yoga, lots of watermelon and guacamole and Aperol Spritzes. After a long, cool, East Coast Spring, the possibility and promise of summer is (for me, at least) highly anticipated.

And yet with the promise of abundant warmth and sunshine and beach time (with the promise of the abundance of anything, really), comes the nagging voice that says, “What if there is not enough?” The worry about whether there will be enough is often followed by something like, “What is everyone else doing and what if I miss out?” And in the age of epic social media saturation, there is plenty of evidence that everyone else is doing something fabulous and that you are, indeed, missing out.

That’s the thing about our brilliant brains—they can spin out before we even realize it. In an instant, we’ve left our bodies and the present moment and are lost in some cycle of comparing ourselves to others, while worrying that our past choices could have been wrong and that we may not be navigating ourselves toward an Instagram-perfect photo op. Thankfully for our busy, always evaluating and assessing and calculating minds, we have the practice of yoga.

When I catch myself in a fear-of-missing-out/inadequacy spiral, it’s helpful for me to remember two gems from Patanjali’s Yoga Sutra. First is the first sutra: “Atha yoga anushasanam.” Translation: “Now, yoga.” So simple that it’s sometimes skipped over, this sutra reminds us that yoga and its practices and teachings are available here and now and at any time in the future, with or without the perfect pose or outfit or pedicure. And what a relief. Out of body moment? Jealousy? Sadness? Joy? Excitement? Perfect. Practice yoga. This may mean that you actually roll out your mat and practice asana. This may mean that you sit quietly in meditation for a moment or five and practice returning your attention to your body and breath in the present moment. This may mean practicing one of the central ethical tenants of the practice like non-harming (ahimsa), friendliness and compassion (maitri and karuna) or honesty (satya).

The other gem from the Yoga Sutra that I return to again and again is the concept of santosha, translated as contentment. The Yoga Sutra lists santosha as one of the five niyamas, which are observances that yogis are to practice within Paranjali’s system of yoga. For me, the practice of santosha is a practice of looking at the world around us and cultivating gratitude for what is in our worlds. It is not a practice of minimizing sorrow or of focusing only on successes and accumulation of material goods. Instead, santosha in action involves recognizing the entirety of our situations—the good, the bad and the in-between—and then making peace with and, perhaps, even cultivating gratitude for whatever is there.

So, as we roll in to summer, it is my prayer that we all take time to be embodied in the present moment. That we may be present enough to feel the sand or the grass or the pavement beneath our feet. That we allow for the possibility that we are enough and that we grow our ability to be content and at peace with who we are, where we are and what we are. And, finally, that we put down our phones and step onto our yoga mats every chance we get.

Containment

Moving into summer, the yoga practice should shift towards containment and purification of the expansive, creative spring energies of April and May. In June, berries take the place of blossoms and the trees send their energy to be stored in sweet fruit. The body’s internal furnace, shifting to accommodate sunshine and longer days, must be stoked to create energy for summer projects.

In some ways, June is the fullest time of year. The earth is nourished, radiant and pregnant with possibility. This is a time to take a moment and survey the work you’ve done on your asanas this spring, add up the lessons and look at the whole picture. Does the tree have roots deep enough to bear the summer harvest? Is there a major leak or blockage in the system? Does a pose’s anatomy support its physiology?

The asana practice purifies the body with heat (tapas). The torso, or “kumba” is considered a container for tapas. With three main bandhas, loosely translated to energetic locks or “valves,” the kumba can leak energy without proper alignment in the pose. If we overwork, the way we release this heat from the body (grunting, breathing heavily, injuring ourselves) can leak heat and important life energy, or prana, and it is lost before nourishing all the systems of our body.

In June, let a strong focus on grounding give way to a feeling of expansion. Seek not endless, unchecked expansion, but instead let communication inside the pose be such that expansion is entirely supported by grounding. Keep coming back to the bones of the pose, but start to lean back, relax and see how the whole thing is humming along.

If spring is a time for clearing out the old, building new schedules, patterns, routines; early summer is the time to put those new patterns into play. Let the focus of your practice start to tip from form towards function. Tune your attention to alignment but see the whole pose. Enjoy your time on the mat. Let the poses sing! Listen and respond. Let the cues from your teacher (or if you’re a teacher, the ones you use yourself) help create a container for your practice. The patterns of attention, compassion and action we work on in class can emanate out to the farthest reaches of our experience. Have santosha (contentment) with what is and see the bigger picture. There is beauty abounding.

Hope

So, you feel like the bad weather is following you around and you just can’t get a ray of the sun. It’s time to check your horoscope and see a Shaman and get active in shaking the shadows or maybe it is time to hide and wait out the storm. Are these lessons for you to uncloak the diamond soul or just random events that keep turning up sour. Who knows? Who knows?

This is the time your asana practice is supposed to kick in and turn lemons into juice. It would work if you could only get out of the lethargy that the turn of events is manifesting. Sad, dejected, lifeless and beaten, you sit unable to lift a finger and even your cat smells the stink and won’t keep you company. Bad attracts bad and an endless cycle of rotten is at hand. There at the bottom, sinking now, in your own despair, you are left with a heartbeat and a breath. A rhythm and a miracle has not abandoned you yet. That beat and that breath is quite magnificent, especially at the bottom of this isolated infinity. Dare you be hopeful? To hope sometimes provides a light but it is often a cliff in which you fall again and again. So why not stay with the pulse and the wind, over and over. Do you feel your heart and your lungs? They are the call of the wild and, for a split second, they are able to give you a relief from your monkey mind. In a day, approximately 20,000 times, you breath in and out and have 90,000 beats of your heart. So many chances you are given to land your mind, your heart and your soul into the moment by moment arising phenomenon. Even a couple of times a day, this dropping into the inner exquisite workings of the body can bend the corners of your mouth skyward and save you from only seeing the doom and gloom.

Practice this tuning in and listening daily and, when the chips are down, it might just save your life.

Baggage

My husband and I recently returned from a six-month sabbatical. We quit our jobs, moved out of our apartment, then left our families and dogs behind. Off to travel the world, we were going places we’d never been and seeing things we’d never seen.

As always there was a catch: I had to fit everything I needed for six months in a carry-on bag. Additionally, everything I had with me, including any hand luggage, had to be under 30 lbs., total. Anyone who has ever traveled with me knows that I am not a light packer. I am the one with the Band-Aids, the allergy medicine, the six pairs of shoes for a weekend trip “just in case”. As you can just imagine, traveling with a small bag for six months was EXTREMELY challenging.

To keep my carry-on light, I had to adopt a “one in / one out” policy. Almost every single day of the trip, I looked at something in my bag and asked myself, “Do I really NEED this?” And every time I got rid of something and my bag felt a little lighter, I realized that I felt a bit lighter, too. It was like a weight had been lifted off me.

We all know what this feels like. Cleaning out a closet, ending a toxic relationship, throwing away all the receipts in your purse—basically emptying excess baggage. There is a sense of lightness that comes from simple subtraction.

Spring is a really beautiful time to get rid of things, to do a cleanse (physical or spiritual) and relieve yourself of some baggage. Spring is a time is for new growth. New growth cannot happen if there are weeds, old roots or untilled soil. Right?

Yoga can be a powerful tool in helping you lighten the load. It’s never easy because you are going to have to get rid of some things you would rather hold on to. You are going to have to let go of old ideas about yourself. You need to ditch some of that old stuff in your closet that is holding you back. You are going to have to shed things that are keeping your soil hard and impenetrable. It’s not easy but even a little shedding goes a long way.

Why Read The Bhagavad Gita Now?

The story of The Bhagavad Gita is set in a society that’s being torn apart by conflict. There are two distinct sides that hold opposing views, and each one firmly believes they’re right. Contempt, hostility and mutual mistrust are the only threads that bind them.

Sound familiar?

Like many, I watch the news more often these days than I used to, and it highlights how divided our society is. Why, in the middle of all this turmoil, should we pause long enough to turn our attention to an ancient text like The Bhagavad Gita? It’s archaic, esoteric, and not a particularly easy read.

***

Imagine you’ve got a major decision to make about something that’s going to effect you and every member of your family. Somehow, everything you’ve ever learned hasn’t adequately prepared you. With so much on the line, you don’t know what to do.

What’s the most responsible course? The kindest? Whose needs should be prioritized? How do you move forward?

How can you know what’s right?

That’s how The Bhagavad Gita opens. The main character is the warrior-prince Arjuna; an epic hero and the best hope of his people. Just as a decisive civil war is about to begin, he throws down his weapons and refuses to fight. Everything he holds dear is on the line – if his people lose, they’ll be humiliated, persecuted and driven from their land. But in order to win he’s got to kill countless others, including many of his own kin and community. Arjuna doesn’t know what to do. So he simply and dramatically stops. He does nothing, takes a pause, and seeks clarity.

That’s when the teaching of yoga begins.

It’s unlikely many of us will face a decision with such extreme consequences anytime soon. But aren’t we all confronting the same issues daily in less dramatic ways ? Don’t you often feel caught in the tug-of-war between what you hold to be right and what the voices of your sensory and egoic desires whisper in your ears?

In asana for example, do you squeeze yourself into difficult poses, ignoring your pain and discomfort, because your ego wants to “achieve” something? Or do you honor the limitations of your body and move in ways that allow your subtle body to open and your breath to become free?

Do you stay in a job you hate because it pays well and allows you to buy lots of lovely things? Or do you find work that suits you better, scale down and forget about going to the Caribbean this winter?

When you’re convinced your partner or friend is absolutely, pig-headedly wrong, do you go on the offensive and angrily blast him/her with a list of all the things s/he’s ever done that aggravate you? Or do you gentle-up, deflate your anger, listen, negotiate?

The Bhagavad Gita encourages us to look beyond personal narrative and boil all questions down to their ultimate sources:

What are our responsibilities to one another? How can we fulfill them while doing what’s best for us?
What does it mean to be alive in a human body?
What is the difference between the self and the Self?
What is the nature and source of all life?
How can we find clarity?
How do we find peace?

In the course of exploring these questions, the deep teachings that lie at the heart of yoga emerge:

The wise man lets go of all results, whether good or bad, and focuses on the action alone. Yoga is skill in actions.

It is better to do your own duty badly than to perfectly do another’s.

The supreme Self is beginningless, deathless, and unconfined; although it inhabits bodies it neither acts nor is tainted.

The Bhagavad Gita has been called a manual for self-knowledge. And isn’t that the inquiry which compels us towards our yoga practice day after day? We want to know ourselves better so we can learn how to live with greater insight, kindness, and grace. Even in the middle of intense turmoil, we long to be at peace.

So I believe there’s no better time than now to follow Arjuna’s lead and take a pause. Seek clarity, question, read and ponder. Meander through the Gita and see what sings to you from that ancient and powerful source. Perhaps it will help you find a way to move forward with greater love, understanding and skill. At the very worst, you’ll come away knowing more about the culture and ideas that helped build the foundations of our practice.

Happy reading,

Linda

*Note: Linda will be teaching a brief Introduction to The Bhagavad Gita during Module 3 of the Advanced Teacher Training that’s being held in Sag Harbor Mar 16-18 & April 13-15.

Start Now

For the most part, I love my life. Sure, I go back and forth on what could have been or what might be. But incessant worrying about past decisions can lead to feelings of hopelessness and depression, and excess worry about the future can cause havoc. Psychologists have shown that indecision causes anxiety which can lead to depression.

Science tells us that if one’s basic needs—food, water, clothing, shelter, and companionship—are met, then contentment, as evidenced by brain activity, is present. Anything extra, they say, doesn’t increase happiness (that is, the brain activity doesn’t change much). The search for happiness/contentment is ancient.

For me, though, a morning sit of 10 minutes and a bit of asana have a profound effect on my day. Time spent in nature looking at beauty and listening to ambient sounds is also therapeutic. I also love to ask myself the questions “What am I passionate about? What do I like to do? Am I doing it?” No rush, but a few adjustments may need to be made.

The bottom line is, if we practice something that prevents us from obsessing over the “what ifs,” then we’ll get better at it. We get good at what we practice. How many times do we need to hear this?! Roshi Joan Halifax says, “Now is the time. Appreciate your life.” Even if you didn’t one minute ago, now is the time. (She adds that being kind and helping others in some sweet way is part of a surefire way to be happy.)

Life is so short. We have FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) because we think something else may make us happy. But missing out on what is right in front of us is actually a shortcut to discontent. If we are loved and give love, if we work hard and have fun, then whatever it is that we have chosen is the perfect thing to be doing.

Here’s a recipe for contentment:

Practice asana without judgement and force.
Sit for a set time each day, and just listen and feel.
Become familiar with the yamas and niyamas.
Do good work.
Help others.

This recipe yields space that has been log-jammed by physical or mental agitation, including agitation caused by worrying about the past or the future. It also reveals the answers to the questions “Am I happy?” “How did I get here?” and “What choice should I make?”

I try to live by the words of Nkosi Johnson, an activist from South Africa who was born HIV positive and died at age 12, “Do all you can with what you have, in the time you have, in the place you are.”

Forms of Freedom

A while ago, I went to the zendo where I regularly practice meditation and, donning my robes and grabbing a cushion, headed into the meditation hall to sit. Instead of being greeted by the familiar neat rows of cushions and fellow practitioners sitting quietly, everything and everyone was all over the place. Ignoring my puzzled expression, my teacher abruptly instructed me to “Just sit anywhere.” I found an open space and carefully arranged myself on my pillow, settling in. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I was determined to focus and embrace silence and stillness.

As soon as I had found my first few breaths, my peace of mind was interrupted. Instead of the usual melodious bells that indicated it was time for the sangha to rise and join in kinhin—walking meditation—there was a solitary loud wooden “clack.” We all stumbled to our feet, blinking into the fluorescent lights that had not yet been dimmed to set the mood. Still hopeful that order might be restored, I placed my hands in gassho in front of my fragmented heart.

“Just walk anywhere,” my teacher said, and began traipsing around casually. The mindful ballet we perform with each other in perfect lines was at once transformed into a crazy jig. It was like trying to navigate a clear path through Grand Central Station at rush hour with the cacophony of voices in your head providing irritated accompaniment: “Get out of my way, stupid!”

When my teacher said, “OK, you can sit down,” I was not near my spot, and so I had to sit on someone else’s cushion, which was too high, too firm, and too near the fan! I wondered if somehow I was in an episode of Stranger Things, and had slipped into the Upside Down. Then my teacher’s gentle tone resumed: “OK, that’s enough of that. Let’s reset the temple!”

We talked, then, about forms and ritual and their roles and importance in cultivating concentration and transforming practice. Form creates a container inside of which you can let go of anything that is not relevant to practice. The practice itself is illuminated as distractions take a back seat. The distractions are still present—they are all still my teachers—but they potentially lose some definition as the bigger picture comes into view.

Today, when I came into the yoga studio to teach, my students were dutifully lined up in rows, yoga mats cheek by jowl, blankets and blocks neatly stacked alongside. Unceremoniously, I asked everyone to get up and go put their yoga mats somewhere else—maybe behind the column or on top of someone else’s mat or facing the “wrong” way. I said, “Put your props out of reach.”

You know where I’m going, but they didn’t. Some looked confused, some annoyed, some excited.

“OK, sirsanasana,” I said, “or maybe hanumanasana.” Some looked like they might cry. Before anyone could move, I said, “OK, let’s reset the temple!” Svaha!

Krama is a Sanskrit word that denotes a thoughtful sequence of events, or step-by-step process by which we approach each asana, gradually developing knowledge and intimacy with the poses. This approach ultimately leads us to encounter ourselves as whole and connected—we experience the interrelated and evolving nature of the asanas and recognize that we, too, are interrelated and evolving. Paradoxically, it’s our observance of order, of sequence, of ritual, of form, that serves to bring us face-to-face with the formless—with pure possibility. Desikachar describes this awareness as having “no form, no gender, no qualities, no features.” Perhaps this is what moksha, or real freedom, is.

Back on track in class, the students moved through a series of poses preparing for hanumanasana. Now that they did not have to worry about where their mat or props were, or if they could trust their teacher to guide them safely and soundly through the practice, they were able to concentrate and relax: sthirum sukham asanamum! Each one was now held in the secure arms of the structure and sequence, and consequently able to add their own divine flair. One student said afterwards that they better understood how all the parts of yoga related to each other. That it felt good to be organized, and that it helped them pay attention to their practice. I think it also made everyone more sensitive to each other.

As a teacher, I now notice more and more a kind of resistance among many students to what I shall call the way of yoga—the form. It’s all very loosey-goosey, downward-doggy, or whatever flight-of-fancy pose they like, regardless of the teacher’s careful directions. Blocks mostly get used as mini-altars for iPhones, or trays for coffee and green juice.

It used to be a point of pride to fold your blanket nicely at the end of class and store it neatly for the sangha sister or brother who might use it next. It used to be a thing to sit up when the teacher entered the room, and to do the little bow at the conclusion of the practice together. “Namaste,” we’d say, “the light within me honors the light in you.” I wonder, have the lights gone out?

I think not. Krishnamacharya, the father of vinyasa yoga, literally met his students at the gate, and after guiding them through practice, accompanied them back to the gate. It was more than a formality. Like Krishnamacharya, I want to travel with my students barefoot along the path of liberation. I want to be a braver and more compassionate teacher. It is not enough to simply link the poses together. It is also my responsibility to demonstrate the connection between folding my blankets, and offering a blanket to someone who needs it. The way of yoga extends beyond the boundary of the yoga studio’s doors.

On the train home, I witnessed an old man with a cane stand and give his seat to a young girl with a heavy package. He insisted. She smiled and sat down. The ceremony of offering and accepting a seat had a certain formality to it, but seeing this made me feel as free as a bird.

Springsteen & Yoga

The first time Bruce Springsteen heard the studio recording of his album Born To Run, he was so unhappy with it, he threw the record in a nearby swimming pool. All he could hear was what was wrong with it. Fortunately, his manager had a different perspective. “Sometimes,” his manager said, “the things that are wrong with something are the things that make it great.”

When I’m refining my yoga practice, I can be a little like Bruce. My knee isn’t anywhere close to a 90-degree angle in standing poses. The arches of my feet are collapsing. My tree looks like a weed. But when I look around the room and see someone’s arm shaking during side plank, I think it’s beautiful. When I see the guy with the tight hamstrings struggling to touch his toes in a forward bend, I’m moved. And when I notice someone’s ankle quaking in tree pose, it’s touching. Because to me it’s the trying that’s beautiful. It’s the effort that’s moving. It’s the attempt that’s heroic. I often feel big rushes of emotion in class—sometimes a welling-up of love for all these human beings who summon the courage to set aside their defenses and try.

We don’t come to yoga class because we’ve got it all figured out. We come, in community with each other, to break old habits, knock down walls, and gain new insights. We also come to practice radical acceptance—not just tolerance for our foibles and our limitations, but a peaceful, even amused, appreciation for our humanity.

When Rodney or Colleen come over and gently reposition the one person out of 66 who didn’t follow the instructions (that was me recently, with the bolster crosswise instead of lengthwise), we see radical acceptance in action. We feel seen and cared for exactly as we are.

Why is it so much easier for me to lovingly accept the foibles of others while I sit in judgement of my own? It’s complicated. But one possibility is that I’m too attached to a particular outcome—to “achieving” a pose, or a particular idea of that pose—the same way Bruce Springsteen may have had some indescribable version of perfection in mind for his album. To me, though, that album is perfect, in part because he and the band gave it their all.

One way to answer my question, I suppose, is to ask myself if I’m giving my all. If I’m busy criticizing myself, then I’m not giving my all, because a part of me is undermining the rest of me. The other answer is to include myself in that radical acceptance as I look around the room. To love my mistakes as much as I love my successes. Instead of throwing the record in the pool, maybe I just need to play it again and see if I can hear it differently.

Dropping Into Our Roots

I am so grateful to live in a place where I can feel so connected to my environment. Recognizing my connection to the world around me is a way I practice yoga off the mat. And a big part of that connection is through light: We are so lucky to live in a place known for its beautiful light, and I love watching how it changes.

The light changes moment to moment with the movement of the clouds. It changes from morning to night. The phases of the moon change the light at night. And the light shifts with the changing of the seasons. As we move towards the winter solstice and darker, shorter days, I notice the environment responding by turning inwards—I notice the landscape going dormant—and I feel like doing the same thing. I feel like turning inward, and cooling down after the brightness and the heat of the summer. This makes me think of pratyahara, the fifth limb of yoga, defined as withdrawal from the senses, and considered the gateway from the more external outer limbs to the internal subtler ones.

The term pratyahara is made of up of two Sanskrit words—ahara, meaning food or anything taken in, including what comes in through our senses; and prati, meaning away or against—that is, moving away from sensory input. Practicing non-attachment to our senses moves us along the yogic path to the deeper limbs—dharana (concentration), dhyana (meditation), and samadhi (absorption).

I think about trees and plants shedding their leaves in the fall. Not only do the leaves of plants provide nourishment, they are also the way plants receive information from their surroundings. Leaves are the trees sensory organs; through their leaves, plants take in nourishment, feel the breeze, and sense the seasonal changes of the light. And their response to this change is to shed their sensory organs—they simply detach from stimuli. As they do this, they become still; they drop into to their roots and their deeper connection to the world.

This is what I think of when I have glimpses of pratyahara: I am not actively trying to shut down my senses. I can’t stop the vibrations of sound from entering my ears, or stop the feeling of the sun on my skin, but I can practice detaching from those sensations—I can just let them go. As I do this, I feel I am taking a step on the now leaf-covered path of yoga, towards an even deeper connection to the world around me.