There are only so many times I can say “downward facing dog” before I go crazy.

I needed a vacation bad and I was hoping my two weeks on the Amalfi Coast would cure this yogic slump of mine.

For weeks leading up to my trip, I had been waxing poetic about practicing yoga overlooking the Mediterranean. I fantasized about my imaginary Italian yoga instructor, and the smell of  lemons wafting through the studio windows. In my mind, it was the perfect setting to find inspiration again. Heck, I even bought one of those travel yoga mats.

In preparation for my trip I googled “Yoga Studios on the Amalfi Coast,” and in response to someone else’s good-natured search for the same thing, this is what I found:

“Can’t you just relax with some limoncello for a week? Swim in the Med? I’m sure your chakras won’t close up by the time you get back to your ashram.”

Well, then. Point taken. Could I go two weeks without yoga class? Would I lose the ability to stand on my head? Would I forget how to breathe? Would I feel totally disconnected from myself?

I decided to pack my mat, just in case.

Turns out, I never unpacked it and that was probably the most “yogic” thing I could have ever done.

My yoga practice didn’t need a mat, a downward dog, or an Italian yoga instructor. It needed permission to step off the mat and embrace, fully, the experiences surrounding me.

And embrace them I did.

One bottle of wine at a time.

One walk along the lemon groves at a time.

One bowl of pasta at a time.

One photo-op at a time.

One scary, hairpin turning coastal drive at a time.

One walk on the beach at a time.

One scoop of gelato at a time.

One breath of the sea air at a time.

One beautifully sunny day at a time.

One walk along the cobble-stoned streets at a time.

One sip of Limoncello at a time.

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Editor: Kate Bartolotta