This is my kind of yogi

The kind that wants to grow

Relentlessly

And endlessly.

The type who has found yoga as self-care and opened her heart—even more.

The kind who has learned to not criticize, but embrace the beauty of imperfections

In herself—but also deeply in others.

She speaks honestly and with clarity

And has learned not to resist but to surrender…

And then surrender even more

To what once served

But is no longer needed.

She loves all that is hard to love.

This is my kind of yogi—

The one who shows up on her mat

Maybe to tone-up

But also to be reminded

Of who she is.

She plays “would you rather” at the bar

Attempts tree pose on a SUP board,

And then dives into cold water.

She eats food from the gas station between Austin and Dallas

Because, while an acaì bowl with organic honey, chia, and green juice in a recyclable cup is preferred,

Torn jeans, hiking boots, cashews, a coke, a candy bar,

And long knotted hair at the side of the road happens.

My kind of yogi loves kombucha but will also slowly savour a glass of red wine.

She appreciates silence and pauses to notice the lizard in the brush

And the wings of the butterfly,

But also blasts rap beats—and her bracelets, you’ll hear them chiming.

She smiles so wide it hurts.

Sometimes she’ll sit alone at breakfast and flip through a book.

This kind

Paints and writes love letters with all of her heart,

She changes in public.

She has a barn and farm animals.

She is conflicted by the conventional.

Sometimes she settles down—

And other times buys one-way tickets.

This is where they will meet

These women…

Who travel along.

When they find their pack

They laugh around the fire, braid hair, sweat in the sauna,

Gaze at the stars from the clear water pool,

Sing, skinny dip,

Breathe in oils, hike to the peaks,

Dance without bras, meditate,

And wear flowers in their hair.

Then they head out again on different paths and each travel home as a lone wolf

But carry each other in their hearts.

Until they meet again

When the moon is full

Where there are porch swings, hammocks, kimonos, green juice, and bare feet

And food from the roadside.

She eats bacon in Ubud

But usually honors a vegetarian lifestyle.

She travels along,

Embraces it all,

Gives water to the dog who just paused to look at her,

Submits paintings for mural competitions,

Adopts abandoned barns, animals, and furniture,

Captures this beautiful world through her photographic lens,

Starts meaningful conversations with strangers,

Is the first on the dance floor,

Makes her own deodorant and throws up-cycling parties with buddha bowls,

Crafts handmade cards for loved ones filled with poetry and, mails them,

With special stones inside.

You’ll find her in a tent in the Redwoods

Following a long dusty trail to the “lost coast,”

Or at the nearest natural spring vitality pool.

Everything she touches turns to gold—homemade bread, vintage duds, sore shoulders,

And flowers in the local garden.

Her skirts are always shorter than the dress code or flowing to the floor.

She speaks many languages—

But mostly with her eyes, heart, and feet.

She’s not afraid to dig in the dirt and roll up her sleeves.

These yogis they travel onward

And when they meet—

They have known each other all along.

When they find their pack

They laugh around the fire, braid hair, sweat in the sauna,

Gaze at the stars from the clear water pool,

Sing, skinny dip,

Breathe in oils, hike to the peaks,

Dance without bras, meditate,

And wear flowers in their hair.

They lay besides one and other in child’s pose

Holding space for the other to be who they are, release, and rest.

They are the ones you will find in warrior pose—the ones who work hard for it.

The ones whose arm you will gently hold to remind them that their commitment to finding

Balance within themselves has

Led them to others who will hold them up.

Then they head out on different paths…

Until they meet again

When the moon is full.

These are my kind of yogis.

~

Author: Sarah Fishstrom
Image: Gary Bembridge/Flickr
Editor: Lieselle Davidson