Many years ago I was at a yoga studio in the back of the room when a massive release of tears flooded my mat. This has left me a bit traumatized about doing yoga in front of others. That day the tears weren’t as bad as the paralyzing loud sobs. No one flinched. No one judged but I punished myself for it for days.
A few days ago I did yoga with these ladies in the morning. There was an expansion and I felt myself cracking open to that release. After a few tears I stopped it. I recognize that yoga, to me, is personal. I do the practice in the privacy of my home that allows me to feel safe.
Every morning this week in Mexico I witness these courageous women in their practice while I sit and meditate. I hold space for myself and them through love.
Yoga isn’t the exercises as much as the mindfulness of presence (for me). Each movement becomes an opportunity to let go, visit, and become.
This morning there is Indian music playing, I lit incense around the sacred space where the women are practicing. My go-to healing is writing. This is my yoga.
There is zero judgment here this week. There is only being. There is release. There is love. There has been major transformational moments that I will never forget. As the days pass, and I prepare for my re-emerging into my life, I feel the grace of the healing spirit. I am forever grateful for the divine feminine staring back from fifteen women.