Mending with Mindfulness

What does it all mean, practically, when you walk into one of my classes? What exactly does this weird in-between style look like in the room, on the mat, in your body? I think the clearest way to describe it is by naming what you will not find, then showing what you absolutely will.

I have an itch. Not on my skin, though sometimes it feels that way. Not in my bones, though my body aches from it. It’s a pulse, a deep urge with no name, a constant presence. A longing. I have an itch— to write, to read, to learn, to scream, to cry, to run, to hide.

Past, present, and future, haunting us with a steady ache that doesn’t scream, doesn’t demand, but simply settles in like it belongs. It doesn’t knock us flat; it wears us down. The way a constant hum can drive a person mad, the way an old injury still throbs when the weather shifts. It’s not often urgent. It’s not loud. It’s just there.

For years, I thought I understood what “listen to your body” meant. Take a nap when you’re tired. Eat when you’re hungry. Stop when...

Only when I reached a new level of low, a summer of needing help up stairs and assistance cutting my own food, did I dare to ask God if there might be a better way. Actually, I'm not even sure if I had reached that point with my walk, I think it was more of a complete submission to the pain and fatigue to the point of not caring if I was in sin, if I went to yoga or dared to go to therapy (yikes - I know).

It's been a weird few years, and I struggle with how to talk about all the new and exciting revelations for lack of a better word that...

As I delved deeper into mindbody healing, I started to see that I had mistaken rigidity for resilience and control for faith.