Growing Older has softened some of my hard-edged rigidites about what constitutes good studentship and teaching. I care a whole lot less about strict rules, protocols, and other people’s reasons for practice than I did when I was first starting out. I know a whole lot less about what other people should or shouldn’t do than I did when I was younger.

But I don’t want my alignment in yoga like that either — dogmatic, threatening, or magical. I want to avail myself of what is helpful, useful, and loving. I want space to explore, to/ know and not know, to ask questions, to get help, to come to my own conclusions and still belong.

In terms of spiritual life, I don’t think expectancy is the same as expectations, be those expectations positive thoughts or visions of impending doom. I think expectancy has something to do with honoring the seasons of gestation — of the winters in life that, for all of their busy-ness and outer demands, are often marked by ennui, not-knowing, and waiting.

More important than training a “way” to teach or providing a set guideline of “what” to teach, is having an ongoing interest in what’s going well, what could be shored up a bit, what feels real to me as I present it, what lands well with my students, and so on.

All these years later, in a time where, for many of us, yoga community exists online more than in a shared physical space, and after many permutations of loss in my life — some of my own choosing and some as a result of other people’s choices — this reflection strikes me as a great reminder of interconnection and how, while no one lives our lives for us or does the yoga for us, and we do not do it alone.

When the uprising of existential dread, fear, concern, heartbreak, and uneasy uncertainty arrives on the doorstep of my well-being, I chant. Unabashedly. Loudly. Awkwardly. Shamelessly. And when shame arrives as it so often does to spoil a mood, I chant in the presence of shame.

I am saying that, from what I can tell, none of think we are ruining yoga. I know that I don’t think it is me. Of course, truth be told, I am playing my part. I am white woman earning a living in and through the yoga industrial complex. Maybe I should start calling my classes Stretching in Sanskrit or Consciousness Exercises in Cute Clothes or Picky Details in Risky Positions, instead of yoga. (Just brainstorming here, don’t mind me.)

Cues are little locked messages and are generally insufficient without repetition, explanation, demonstration, self-awareness, and interest applied over time. And, every instruction needs to be balanced within the pose, the person who is practicing the posture, and with a bunch of other instructions.

And, perhaps one of the best parts of this mindset is that it helps me break the habit of criticizing and fault finding that had long flavored my perception and actions. Criticism is an easy trap to fall into and I see plenty of it — inside myself and others. And so we are clear, I am not ignoring, or suggesting we ignore, the difficult and harmful truths that have emerged in many yoga communities over the years. I am talking about the habitual stance of finding fault I had fallen into, which is marked by a sort of self-congratulatory disdain.

One of the great things of the weekend was being with so many people who have stayed in place in terms of their yoga practice. No one has done anything perfectly, mind you. We all have had challenges complete with long periods of absence from the mat and from our better angels. Staying in place isn’t so much never wavering as it is the continual returning to oneself. Staying in place isn’t being perfect as much as it is the willingness to turn around when we’ve wandered, to heed the small whispers of conscious and when they fail to get our attention, to be willing to be yanked back to our senses, to our selves, and to our communities that sustain and support us.

To be clear, I do not always find it easy to be awake and aware. Like anyone, I struggle with intimacy, deep feelings, and living authentically in a world organized by competition, greed, and consumption. Trust doesn’t come easy for me and I have tendencies and behaviors that anesthetize, buffer, and lull me into numbness when living in the world feels overwhelming or just flat-out disappointing. I spend a fair amount of time in the desert, where my solitude is stark, arid, and without much color. And yet, there are no sunsets like those in the desert and, as anyone who has spent time in the southwestern United States knows, that barren landscape is teeming with life, if you know how to recognize it.

But the paradox is that the strength of group gave me allowed me to be softer, not harder. Strength didn’t look like supreme confidence, having it all together, or knowing all the answers. The strength of the group held something up for me so that the edifices of personality, the contractions caused by my feelings of not-enough-ness in all its guises, could come down. Strength of the group allowed for vulnerability. Trust in the safety of the circle and the long-time connections I had with many of the women, allowed me to feel that sweet strength of spirit that lives in authenticity— whether the authentic moment is joyful, sorrowful, awkward, or delightful.

I know that for all of the possibility inherent in our asana practices and classes, we are, for reasons too numerous to name, dealing with a small patch of snow on the tip of the great iceberg called yoga. And yet, I remain hopeful about how my little patch of snow called asana is linked to something grand, whole, and loving in the same way that my body is only the visible part of the largeness of who I most truly am. I never tire of this reminder, of living a life testing this theory, and of growing into the fullness of this promise. If we are blessed with an interest in physical strength and with a body capable of pursuing it, then I can see no better context for said pursuit than as a means to support, sustain, and empower the journey beyond physical strength-only.

I am not saying that I live in some inner state of cosmic unity in the midst of life’s tedious chores and upsetting circumstances. I am simply saying that at some point, the division I had set up between what was yoga and what wasn’t, what was spiritual and what wasn’t, got blurrier and a few rather lovely paradoxes emerged. By spending tine making a life beyond yoga, I eventually walked back into that life as yoga. By spending regular time in practices like asana, mantra, and meditation, the mundane surface of life felt more enjoyable for what it was in its glorious simplicity. The outer and the inner became both more distinct and more the same. Love of God began to feel more like Love itself.