In yoga, we access our true Self through the body. This fascinates me. We should not pretend that our body is merely physical, as if it supports our life and our organs, but that’s it. We should not lie and say the physical body does not matter. Our entire society is obsessed with people’s bodies! So it matters. But yoga is not appearance and it’s not clothes. It’s not poses or flexibility. It’s not toned muscles and perfect Warrior poses. Yoga is a journey, and a path to truth and enlightenment.

Embarking on a quest brings tail wagging excitement upon anticipation. Images scroll through your mind, and you of course create a rendition of the final product – the photo snapped when you finally reach the mountain’s peak. But in the middle of the process, as you are climbing, thirsty, and with aching muscles, your mind forgets the initial euphoria and you wonder if all of it was a dream, or worse, a crazy, futile aspiration.

The endurance of cleaning out closets and re-purposing rooms provides a kind of strength, a cleansing, and possibly a rebirth. My identity begins to reveal itself in every room, in the pale pink walls, the over-stuffed bookshelves, and the all-white chandelier.

My upward dog gets stronger the more I flow, and I let go of what it should look like, and simply do what feels best for me.

The greatest lesson I’ve learned in life is that my path is not my plan. I can’t hold onto anything. Nothing is mine – not even my own boys. I get to guide them, teach them, and observe them in awe, but the path God has set for them is not up to me. I am a witness to their journey, and hopefully I can honor that position.