As it happens, I don’t always need to move slowly, I just need to move at the speed of my presence. There is a difference. And maybe, just maybe, that difference is yoga.

Plans can change. Wet clothes can dry. Love is the constant.

Efficiency, as it happens is not an indicator of joy and not even always a net positive. Efficiency in one can lead to inefficiency in the whole.

It is not a coincidence that when I am distracted and stressed, and therefore need the centering that comes with meditation, I find it hard to actually close my eyes.

I mourn the imminent shift in my daily routine. Re-finding balance will require flexing muscles I might not know I had.

I miss many things about Brooklyn, but they are not really about the place.

We all have the capacity to love, and it starts by loving ourselves enough to recognize where we contribute to suffering and harm.

There can be no group-think when you truly enter yourself.

The way out of here, paraphrasing Rabbi Tarfon, says: the enormity of this work is not the point.

This past Saturday, I did something I have never done before. I truly respected the boundaries of my body.

It is not insane to demand peace, to insist on our joint humanity, to posit the possibility of love.

I did the research. I know.

When do routines become a cop-out, a way to avoid engaging with life?

When I practice at home, yoga is literally part of my life, and not just something I do when I put on yoga pants and go to the studio.

I needed to focus on treating another human being right, before I was able to extend that courtesy to myself.

An odd to the walls within. that persist and surprise us, still. Even for the umpteenth time.

My morning meditation feels like a memory of spaciousness that can last all day.

When I know something with my body, mind, and soul, my path of action is different, conscious, chosen with care.

It’s time to go to the next hilltop and see what you can see from there.

There are a million ways to write a manifesto. I want to write mine with my life.