I see you.

You come to class with integrity and you carry your body with grace. You are in your 50s, 60s, or maybe in
your 70s. Sometimes you are wearing simple sweatpants and a t-shirt, other times you show up sporting a big rock on your finger and Lululemon pants so fitted it’s as though they were hand-sewn for you. Rock or not, those fingers have fine lines, and those lines represent years of wisdom gained.

I hear you. 

You let out a gentle sigh as you stretch back to downward facing dog. It’s a sigh that signals comfort and familiarity. You’ve been here before, maybe hundreds of times,  or maybe thousands of times, but in this pose you find release. You find peace. You go into your body and forget what is happening around you.

I practice with you.

You might glance over at me and smile. What exactly is behind that smile? Do you snicker to yourself as I set up my brand new Jade mat, because you remember a time when there were no sticky mats? Have you been practicing that long? Do you smile at me because I remind you of a daughter or a granddaughter? Smile aside, please know that it is an honor to practice next to you.

I teach you.

Again, you smile at me. Perhaps I say something that truly resonates with you, or maybe I say something
that you’ve heard, in some form hundreds of times before, from dozens of other yoga teachers you’ve studied with.

You take a breath as my hands adjust you. My hands handle your body with care—a body that has seen decades of joy, sorrow, gain, loss, history and triumph. I handle you with care not because I think you are fragile, but because I hold such respect for you and where you’ve been.

I handle you knowing that where I take you might not be new, but I hope, I just hope, that it helps you find some sort of release.

I notice you.

You float into headstand, as you have hundreds of times before. Your mind is calm and clear. It seems as if
you’ve completely forgotten that there are other people in the room. You breathe, you press your foundation into the mat, your toes stretch towards the sky, and you find stillness. You notice me.

I fly into crow pose with little effort. Perhaps you used to do the same. Maybe you’ve retired the pose
because your body has changed, and it might no longer be appropriate.

Perhaps you look at me with longing, wishing that you still had that type of practice—more likely, you look at me knowing that you were once there, and one day I will be where you are, watching a younger version of me. I bet you could care less if everyone else in the class flies into crow.

After decades of yoga asana, you’ve long left your ego behind. You are confident, cool, and collected. You don’t need to perform for anyone. You don’t need to do every pose. My ego is busy whispering in my ear to fly higher and do more. Maybe we can grab coffee after class and you can help teach me how to keep it quiet?

I tip my hat to you.

Perhaps you are not the woman that I’ve described above. Maybe you recently came to yoga, and wish you had discovered it sooner. I hope you know it doesn’t matter the point at which you discovered it, what matters is that you are here now, in the present. I hope you know that it is something that can be a part of you for the rest of your life.

No matter your level of yoga experience, your level of life experience brings an element to your practice that I won’t be able to comprehend for decades to come. It doesn’t matter what the body physically can or cannot do on the mat, what matters is what transpires in your body and your mind while you flow, meditate, and breathe. The “stuff” that no-one else can see but you.

I bow to you, wise woman, however old you are and no matter where you are within your yoga practice. I hope you know that I want to be like you when I am also in my wiser years.

You inspire me at every moment. Your presence reminds me that I can also keep my practice with me for the rest of my life, no matter what form it takes. Thank you for showing up to the mat week after week.

Thank you, thank you, and thank you again, from the bottom of this much-less-wise yogini’s heart.

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Assist Ed: Bronwyn Petry/Ed: Sara Crolick