I found my yogini self under a tree—without a mat.

My bony bum pressed against her roots, my spine melting into the curve of her trunk.

I wasn’t in down dog or warrior. I was just leaning. Listening. Letting myself be held by something older, wiser, and far more alive than any studio I’d practiced in before.

She—this tree, this Earth goddess—became my teacher that day.

I forgot about alignment. I forgot about whether my head was bobbing or my shoulders were relaxed. My only cues were the wind through her leaves, the hum of insects in her branches, the sun dappling my closed eyelids.

There, in her shade, I felt as protected as if I were in child’s pose.

There, in her presence, I was completely naked—even clothed. She saw my tired heart. My tangled emotions. My deep need for something real.

And she didn’t flinch. She simply offered space.

That’s when I realized:

This was yoga.

Not performance. Not gear. Not curated playlists and Lululemon leggings.

But presence. Connection. A return to my own inner rhythm.

My New Studio

Since that day, nature has become my studio.

The wind: my breath coach.

The bird song: my playlist.

The sun and the earth: my savasana assists.

My mantra? My senses.

Sometimes I bring a Mexican blanket and lie down, letting her bathe me in warmth and groundedness. Other times, I sit, spine against bark, not moving at all. Because it’s not about the shape. It’s about the presence. I found a new place of practice. Somehow Mother Nature became my studio. My fellow yogis, the elements. My mantra: my senses.

In this new, open aired studio space, my clothes didn’t matter. My yoga gear was obsolete.

She wasn’t judging me—this new, omnipotent instructor. Her ever-changing face reflecting my divinity through sound and touch and sight and smell and taste—and spirit. Oh there was so much spirit there in her presence.

In this open-air sanctuary, I don’t care what I’m wearing. My yoga gear is obsolete. There is no mirror here. No judgment. Just remembering.

She—this ever-changing, always-listening teacher—reflects me back to myself.

I reflect her.

A perfect loop.

A holy remembering.

An Invitation to Practice Differently

Every year when the blossoms bloom, I return to her.

You can too.

Let nature become your studio, your instructor, your breathwork guide.

Let the dandelions be your studio flyers.

The bees your reminders to soften.

The wind your final exhale.

You don’t need a class pass. You don’t need a perfect down dog.

You just need to show up—with your bare heart, your honest breath, and your willingness to be astonished.

“Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.”

~ Mary Oliver

So here I am: telling about it.

And inviting you in.

~