I’m afraid there won’t be enough, that the storm will bring fire on lightning bolts. But as the afternoon darkens into evening, the rain continues, and my relief feels like a long, drawn-out exhalation. Not that it’s been an exceptionally hot summer.

These past months, during these not-so-hot days, I’ve been moving through something. Who am I in all of this, and what do I seek to do in this life were half-questions that never formed perfectly, neither on my lips nor on the page.

What I’d have done better to ask was this:

How can I best tread upon this path I’ve already created, and show up in the world with all of my senses?

How can I untangle the strings of my beautiful, messy (sometimes chaotic) life, and thread them into some kind of coherence?

In the end, answers came through my community. Not whole answers. Not the kind of tidy-it-all-up solutions I sometimes crave, but just enough clarity for me to take the next steps.

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Nourish and nurture

I’ve been working on discernment.

I’ve not said yes to every single invitation this summer, just for the sake of having fun. I’ve focused on what nourishes and nurtures. I’ve had a quieter summer than previous years. I’ve sat more often. I’ve used my senses: barefoot gardening, listening to the sounds of the chickens and ducks, building a relationship with these small creatures that share my home.

I’ve planned whole paintings in my mind, smudging the sky in blends of blue and white, revelling in the way the light falls dappled from between branches. I’ve met with friends for real conversation, and I’ve kept plugging away at the things that feed me. And out of this haze of summer-ness, somehow, some form of sense was restored.

Back in June, I’d had all of these ideas (remember?) to write different newsletters, to complicate my life no end, adding more responsibility. And in the end, nothing happened.

So here I am, making a comeback to Words and Yoga, but with a different promise this time. I’ll be posting monthly rather than weekly, with occasional in-between posts (like this one).

Each letter will be delivered on the first Saturday of the month, and paying subscribers will receive a 45-minute guided practice the following day. This will be a way for you to take the month’s theme off the page and into a felt sense in your body, but it’s in no way needed for the words to make sense.

This feels like a workable tapestry, one that I can weave throughout the seasons, and one that I hope you’ll enjoy weaving with me. I invite you to pick up a thread or two (keep it manageable), and join me on this journey.

Until September.

I tell myself I’m getting up early to have me-time before starting work, but, more often than not, I just start work early. Once I start, I’m hooked. There’s no going back. I won’t get on the yoga mat or even stand up to stretch from time to time. I compete with myself.

I drive myself as a tyrant might drive his slaves, enforcing tighter and tighter deadlines, squeezing more and more out of every hour until, mid-afternoon, I find myself present in my mind for a few moments: the first time since waking.

I realise I haven’t taken a break all day.

Hi friend, do you relate?

If so, you might like to check out the rest of this article at my brand new Substack newsletter, Body Sense Yoga Therapy & Ayurveda.

In case you missed it, I’m taking a break from Words & Yoga. You’ll find my quarterly deep-dives and weekly expansions over there at Body Sense.

Hope to see you there!

Read the full article here

If you’ve been enjoying summer’s warmth for a few days in a row now, you might find that raging fire inside you needs a little cooling. According to Ayurveda, summer can bring feelings of agitation, heart burn, nausea, impatience and anger. It’s the time of pitta dosha, with its qualities of heat, oiliness and inflammation.

How do you know if your pitta is out of balance? If you suffer any of the problems listed above, you’re probably pitta-deranged (nice term, eh?) Eat light, fresh foods with minimal spices. Avoid fried and overly salted food, and drink cooled herbal teas such as rose or peppermint.

All of these are good examples of actions you can take, but in my experience, the best thing you can do is to slow down and start to really observe what’s going on in your body. I’ve seen it happen time and time again: people find solutions when they step into trusting the body’s wisdom.

This month I’m writing about this very topic in my second newsletter, Body Sense Yoga Therapy and Ayurveda

Words & Yoga

In case you missed last week’s post, I’ve decided to step away from Words & Yoga for the time being. This is the last Monthly Gathering you’ll get, though if you’re a paying subscriber, you’ll continue to receive the weekly recordings and be able to join my classes (founding members).

I’m focusing my attention on Body Sense Yoga Therapy and Ayurveda and I’d love it if you would join me there. The next article is due in mid June, and I’ll soon be writing weekly posts that link to the longer quarterly one.

I’ll be writing about:

• The hidden messages in wellness culture

• The subtle ways we learn to mistrust our bodies

• How language changes the way we experience being in our bodies

• Embodiment as relationship rather than self-improvement

• Seasonal living in the modern world

• Effort, ambition and overdrive culture

• What pain science reveals about how we move

• The hidden philosophies inside yoga cues

One last thing

If you’re a paying subscriber, scroll to the bottom of this page for your free 45-minute class recording.

I’m taking a short break and will be back to the online classes on June 15th. They happen on Mondays, 9-9.45am, UK time. Get in touch if you’d like to join.

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Somehow, because of social media, friends you haven’t seen in 20 years never feel that far away. You don’t speak, but you know you could. You don’t even go on Facebook. But you know you could, and that you will, and that then, all manner of news will be available.

And just like that, another old mate fades into oblivion. In Russia, they have different words for friend. It’s hierarchical, and there’s a special word reserved solely for those deep, long-term friendships.

But when you spend your life moving across continents, those deep bonds form more quickly. We were friends when we lived in Laos, and we might not have seen each other in decades, but we were close once, very close. And mourning just reminds us of all the others lost along the way.

We always planned to go back and be with our old buddies in Laos. Times have changed and so have we, but we speak about it a lot.

We’re attached to the stories of who we once were, what we’ve done, where we’ve been. A death cuts right into the story, reminding you once and for all that there’s never any going back.

One day though, I will stand on the banks of the Mekong River, knowing in my heart that my old friend is now part of those waters. But standing there, I’ll be different to the person who once drank bia lao on that very same riverside. The only thing we have is right now.

Death can open up spaces to reach out to an old crew, or can simply remind you to give thanks for what you have, right now, in this moment. It’s a good time to take stock. Death reminds me that time is precious.

I’m taking a break from Words & Yoga

Time is precious, and I’ve decided to step away from Words & Yoga for the time being. If you’re a paying subscriber, you’ll continue to get the benefits:

Paid subscribers get a monthly recording of one of my online yoga classes and access to the full archive.

Founding members also get to join me for a gentle yoga session (almost) EVERY Monday morning, 9-9.45am (UK/Lisbon time).

This will all continue.

And it’s not that I’m stopping writing.

I’ve realised the questions I’m most interested in exploring (those that bridge the gap between ancient wisdom and modern research) require more of my attention than I’ve been giving them. Rather than dividing my attention between two newsletters, I’m going to focus on my new one, Body Sense Yoga Therapy and Ayurveda.

If you enjoy my poetic words, I hope to maintain the voice in my next project. But I’ll also be diving deeper into the topics that most interest me, such as:

• The hidden messages in wellness culture

• The subtle ways we learn to mistrust our bodies

• How language changes the way we experience being in our bodies

• Embodiment as relationship rather than self-improvement

• Seasonal living in the modern world

• Effort, ambition and overdrive culture

• What pain science reveals about how we move

• The hidden philosophies inside yoga cues

Visit Body Sense Yoga Therapy & Ayurveda

Please consider joining me there.

With love,

Have you noticed the speed this spring?

And speaking of things that need warmth and movement, it’s easy, perhaps, to forget that sometimes you just have the opposite to give.

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The only thing there is to know about Ayurveda is that like attracts like and opposites balance, and this is what I remember as I ease my weary body into a chair in the sun.

In these days of fast growth, you might be drawn into the speed of things. You must flow with the season; it will take you with it anyhow. But remember too that even while you’re resembling the time of year you’re living through, you need to reverse it for balance.

Harmonise the sudden heat with things that cool. Balance bouts of rain with tea and toast. This week, then, I’m looking for the things that stick out, rough edges on a smooth season, and I’m giving them their opposite: a cool drink on a hot day, a warm layer on a rainy day. This is spring. It’s neither here nor there, and all we have to do is keep up.

House sitting for friends brings new experiences, unexplored deciduous forest and space enough to contemplate life without all the distractions that being at home brings.

And it’s a welcome space because this month I’m embarking on a new part of an old journey. I start my Ayurveda diploma, which is really just a continuation of a path I’ve been on for a couple of years, but is one that feels fresh and exciting all the same.

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As I meander my way down winding woodland paths, my thoughts ramble too, from new adventures to old journeys, and my mind is pulled back to a workshop I ran at the weekend. It was all about lymph, and I’m recalling how, unlike blood, lymph doesn’t pump around your body on its own. It needs warmth, movement and stimulation.

And isn’t that just like a new project? You can’t launch it without working. At the end of my weekend workshop, I asked people their main takeaways. This is what one person said:

“More music. More dancing”.

It was a revelation. During that workshop, I saw people that have been coming to my classes for years move in ways I’ve not seen them move before. Why? Because we had music to help the flow. So if

music provides that warmth and the movement needed for healthy lymphatic flow, should this become a standard part of my teaching?

I’d love to know your thoughts.

Leave a comment

I’ve avoided having music in my classes simply because I learned yoga without music and I’m a fan of tradition (sometimes). But seeing the joy on people’s faces this weekend taught me something: change is also ok.

Helping the flow

I stumble upon pines being tapped for their sap, a medieval practice that yields resin for glue and turps. And I notice how the wound made in the trunk of the tree invites the tree to give its gifts.

Sometimes you need to help the flow. Lymph needs movement. Pines need a wound. New ideas need space to move.

I’ve been holding onto what I thought was ‘right’, but this weekend, seeing the joy on people’s faces as they moved in time to the music, I realise I’ve been blocking that flow. And I wonder how many other flows I’ve been unintentionally holding back.

I believe that delving into Ayurveda will stimulate whole rivers I’ve not even recognised before, and as I stand on this threshold, my mind is on how lymph, that lovely watery fluid that gathers cellular waste from your body and carries it away, is literally keeping you alive.

And yet, most of us have barely given it a thought. With this in mind, I wonder, what other flows am I neglecting? What else needs stimulation that’s kept out in the cold?

Sometimes, like pine trees, we need to be cracked open for the sweetness to flow. And I, for one, have decided something.

In my classes, we’ll have more music. More dancing. And I’m curious to know, what flows are blocked in your life? This month, I’m paying attention to the hidden things; the things that need warmth and movement to gush once more, and the things that need to be tapped into for their goodness to flow.

Perhaps you will too.

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Some news

I don’t usually publicise my events and workshops here, because, being run in small spaces, they tend to be invite-only. But next week I’m hosting a free event in Coja, so if you do happen to be local, please pop along.

Anxiety pulls you into the future, but your body only ever lives in the present. Yoga teaches you to use breath, movement, and body awareness to come back, not once a week in a yoga class, but in the small moments of your day.

Your nervous system is trainable, and that’s what we’ll be discussing and experiencing.

Tuesday 5th May at RIJU, Côja, 9.30-12.30

One last thing

If you’re a paying subscriber, scroll to the bottom of this page for your free 45-minute class recording.

We’re focusing on lymph flow and twists this May, so if you’ve been considering joining my online classes (Mondays, 9-9.45am, UK/Lisbon time), now is the perfect time. Get in touch for the Zoom link.

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But it’s hard to be human. Afterwards, she felt guilty. I should have let him die naturally, she said.

We’re always trying to make the right decision. But what if there were no right decision? But only the right manner in which the decision was made?

Acting in love and kindness, one could allow a cat to die naturally, giving it food, water and affection, until such things were no longer needed.

Acting in love and kindness, one could have the cat put down, give it a stroke and hand over the money, ease the poor creature into death.

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It’s so easy to be hard on yourself, when you’re human. But one thing I know about cats is that they don’t feel guilt or shame.

One cat I loved seemed to sometimes know when he’d done something wrong. He’d get a wild look in his eyes for a moment or two. But it would soon be gone. Cats don’t hold onto emotions.

But that doesn’t mean they don’t have feelings. Yesterday, Batfink was preening in my lap, happy as could be. Then along came Momo, eyes squinting (not in that cat-smiling way). Cats get jealous, but it doesn’t last.

What if we lived more like cats, making a decision and then moving on? Nothing in the world can take you back in time, and cats don’t even have to know this. Momo pounces on Batfink, catching him unaware and knocking him to the ground. Batfink hisses and makes a play of chasing him. But when Momo runs away, he’s not wondering: perhaps I should have left Batfink alone.

Cats don’t replay the decisions they’ve made. Maybe that’s why we love our feline friends so much. So today, each time I catch myself wondering if I could have done something better, I pretend I’m a cat. Any Red Dwarf fans out there?

It’s great being a cat. Stretch, Move. And shake it off.

The moment has passed, and it’s on to another.

Will you join me?

If you’ve been reading my words for a while and have found them of use, you might consider supporting the work, even just with a like or a share. It’s always appreciated.

When you’re ill, the world settles differently around you. Time warps and the body relates to space in other ways, sometimes merging with the world as though sinking into mattress, other times, rubbing briskly against it, like a nail on a file.

There’s something soothing about allowing the sickness to pass without trying to treat it. Just watching the symptoms change from hour to hour, marveling at how the body copes with foreign invaders.

There’s a stuffiness, pain in the sinuses, pressure.

And then it all comes pouring out in unimaginable quantities (sorry)! There’s nothing you can do because you have no attention span. Your wandering mind is only half present, and you start to write, put it down, pick up a book, put it down. There’s nothing for it but to lie in stillness, snooze a while, then sneeze.

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At 3am, I’m awake, and I’m listening to Radio 4. Which Brit hasn’t listened to BBC Radio 4 in the middle of the night and found it comforting? There’s something reassuring about listening to something not of your own choosing, something not neatly found in your own personal algorithm.

Stories come in, and stories go out. You drift, snooze, awaken, and your mind wanders. Yet there’s always the hourly pips and those soothing voices.

Who knew sickness could be so blissful?

I remember, in the early 2000s, being urged to go to work with vulnerable elderly people in such a state. Sick days were not encouraged because they’re just not profitable, but that’s only because we were measuring the wrong things. When you think of the benefits to your body, they’re priceless.

Emerging from a cold (after all, it was just a wee cold, flooring as it was) is like coming into spring. You’re energised. Revitalised. New. And there’s new faith in your own body too, because you’ve just watched it repair itself, hour by hour, with nothing but good food and hot water to help it.

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You’ve had time to reflect. And what seemed so important last week, you now realise can wait.

Rethinking showing up

Lying there at some point (night or day, who knows), I realised that I’ve been treating my own work like that old job, showing up even when I’m not okay. And that is no way to teach.

I’m making some changes. My monthly wind-down sessions, while lovely, were taking more than I had to give, so I’m letting them go. If you were one of the faithful few who attended regularly, thank you. I do appreciate it. It seems that life is a collection of experiments, and this one taught me that sometimes, the most radical thing you can do is rest.

As I move into my week, a couple of days late with this newsletter, but feeling more energised by the minute as my body completes its miraculous (we are miraculous) recovery, I’m so grateful to be able to live by experiment, to dip my toes in the waters of so many rivers.

I wish you a blessed week, radiant with health and the knowledge that you are truly astonishing.

If you’ve been reading my words for a while and have found them of use, you might consider supporting the work, even just with a like or a share. It’s always appreciated.

Another month rolls in. The first Tuesday of the month sees me sitting in grief. Not for anything or anyone in particular, but as part of a grief circle in which some grieve for loved ones, others for the land.

We all know loss.

When loved ones die, they leave a space inside that will never heal. It’s a void, the shape of which you never knew existed, but which may, in time, give shelter to other entities, just as the gorgeous wound in the tree protects a host of small creatures and creeping moss. It will always be hollow, and yet it breeds life.

And if you live in a world that burns, you’ll know that when it does, something inside you burns too. How can there be life in those flames, you might wonder? But once the blaze has passed, tiny flowers appear from the ashes, more than you’ve ever seen.

Ever opened up to grief and found life come bursting through?

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Here, there are those whose land has burned twice in a decade. And as we move away from the floods and the storms of winter, new terrors loom. Fire season has already begun.

Wherever you are, spring, in all its glory, can be fraught with overwhelm. The phenomenal speed at which everything changes offers the perfect opportunity for grief practices, because as soon as you glance away, the buds you were just admiring have gone, grown into something else. And just as quickly, the flowers have fallen and are plumping into fruits.

The cycles of the seasons are never-ending. But is this also the end of some larger cycle we can’t truly understand? Dimly aware of its edges in our peripheral vision, must we keep walking through this forest of life?

As the world, seemingly intent on its own destruction, teeters on the very edge of complete chaos, I’m reminded that life, like loss, is never-ending. Cyclical in nature, grief is a thing that, once you know it, visits frequently. So how will you greet her? As an enemy or a friend?

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Tips on working with grief

1. Sit with the hollow. Sit comfortably on a chair or the floor. Inhale, then let it go. Find the bottom of this exhalation and pause for a moment without rushing to the next in-breath. Notice how your body breathes itself back. You don’t have to do anything. The shape of what you lost is the space that makes room for whatever comes next.

2. Find your wound. Lie on your back with your knees bent, feet flat on the floor. Place one hand on your chest and the other on your belly. Gently recall something or someone you’ve lost without trying to fix anything. Notice where in your body you feel it, allowing your grief to have a shape, a texture, a colour or a sound.

3. Meet the grief. Sit comfortably in a chair or on the floor. Slowly circle one shoulder backwards, then the other. Roll both together, noticing any resistance or tension. Move on to gentle hip circles or shift your weight from side to side. Grief lives in these joints, but you don’t need to name it. Let it move like water.

4. Breathe for the seasons. Sit quietly and comfortably and inhale for spring. Feel its newness arrive. Pause briefly for summer. No straining. Take a long, deep exhalation for autumn, allowing yourself to fully let go, and pause gently for winter. Repeat as many times as feels right and notice which season your body wants to linger in.

The Monthly Wind-Down

Paying subscribers can join me once a month for a 45-minute Monthly Wind-Down session.

So far, they’ve been running on a Sunday, but this month’s session will happen at 8-8.45 pm on Thursday 23rd April.

I’ll be sending the Zoom link to paid subscribers soon. If you’re not a paid subscriber but would like to join a session, get in touch to book your place.

One last thing

If you’re a paying subscriber, scroll to the bottom of this page for your free 45-minute class recording.

We’re focusing on awakening the body through gentle backbends this April, so if you’ve been considering joining my online classes (Mondays, 9-9.45am, UK/Lisbon time), now is the perfect time. Get in touch for the Zoom link.

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Yesterday, R asked, “What is the Sanskrit for space?” …

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But this time, it really feels as though the world is falling in, doesn’t it?

Sitting around a friend’s dinner table. There’s pie with h…

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Even when the world seems to be going to the wolves, going against the grain can be a radical act of defiance against a system that doesn’t give two hoots about you or me.

As morning leaks into afternoon, and afternoon bleeds into evening, I fi…

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See how spring flowers unfurl out of the Earth? If you naturally find yourself stretching and yawning, stepping outside with a blanket at s…

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I was taught that you can’t teach yoga without being a poet, and I’m inclined to agree. In this newsletter, I attempt to view life—and yoga—through a poetic lens.

What exactly is yoga?

Yoga isn’t about movement, but movement can be yoga.

Yoga isn’t about stillness, but stillness can be yoga.

Have you ever sat completely still in a daydream, deeply immersed …

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Travelling.

Is taking the very fabric of your own life in hand.

And pulling,

until a hole comes.

Then holding it up to your face and looking out.

For weeks or months, this hole is your home.

Untethered to your life,

And this is why you choose to go:

For this sense (it’s only a sense) of what it means to be free.

And then.

One day.

You notice:

The hole is no longer …

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On foot, you recognise more easily the small things.

Round, shiny pebbles, cracks in the pavement, tiny flowers blooming out of them, and shimmering shards of broken glass. They all have their stories, but who has time to wonder?

I’ve been gifting myself time of late; time to read the little stories in the world, and with the world’s really big stories collapsing before our very eyes, finding meaning in life’s crumbs is a gift indeed.

My fingers trace history in the creepers strangling a tree. I gaze into the future each time the sun rises. I listen to the jungle grow beneath my feet, and breathe in and out the scent of pure sunshine.

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As I write this, I’m on a 6-day retreat in a quiet location in the north of Goa. The Asian koel sounds overhead. Eeu, eeu, it cries, and a boy stands in front of me, hosing down the garden. The scent of the earth rises as the sun grows heavy in the sky, and as the ripe day nears its end, I bear witness to this place, right now.

I could be anywhere: back in Europe where friends have been building snowmen in their gardens and battling high winds; on the beach down the road, feeling the froth of the sea on my feet; or somewhere else entirely, somewhere I’ve never been before, with wind whipping in my face.

I could be watching my river swell and burst, could count the flowers blooming pre-spring, and witness the rain that falls in all directions (not just down). At some point, I realise that where I am and what is happening matter less than my presence.

Established in awareness, I don’t react to the unspeakable pressures of witnessing this crumbling world. With attention, I see what yearns to be seen right here: delicate flowers unfurling on the lotus pond; the dainty fronds of the touch-me-not plant that curl up in response to my prodding them. The plant reacts. I try not to.

Winter isn’t the time for taking huge, life-changing steps

But it’s the perfect time to take a tiny turn: one of those subtle hip movements you learn in a martial art practice. It takes a minuscule amount of energy to perform, but has, potentially, a huge effect.

I find myself sharpening my tools, ready for what’s to come.

I find myself with big ideas that, I realise, can come about with just a tiny shift.

With this in mind, I’ve rewritten my start here page, and I’d love for you to read it because it describes exactly what I want to share with you in this newsletter. It’s not exactly a manifesto—more a mission statement. But I want you fully on board before we take this flight any further together.

Because Words & Yoga is changing … ever so slightly. I’ll let you know more next month, but I’ve tricks up my sleeve.

You’ll notice already, the format has changed. Where once I would share hints and tips in the first post of the month, now I share only ideas. I present them to you on a platter—my gift to you. And you can choose what to do with them.

I’m viewing life—and yoga—through a poetic lens, and I invite you along for the ride.

But as Krishna reminds Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita, we have only the right to act. We do not have the right to the fruits of our actions.

So it’s entirely up to you whether you choose to contemplate the small things in life this month or whether you stop reading before you reach the end of this article.

It’s up to you whether you hit the like button or choose to leave a comment. And it’s your choice entirely whether to use any of what I’ve said here in your own life.

Instead of sharing hints and tips, I leave you with a list of small things I’ve noticed recently. I’d love to hear about anything you have to add to the list!

• Broken pottery just visible in the dust of Earth

• A gold lamé sandal thrown to the side of the road

• Plastic bag upon plastic bag littering the roadsides

• A mangy dog with sad eyes and overly long nails curling around his paws

• Tiny yellow flowers dancing in the morning sun

• An old piece of yellow saaf (cloth) tied in tattered shreds to a banyan tree

• Money glinting on a countertop

• The sharp flash of a black-tailed golden oriole landing on a branch overhead

• Water lapping

I wrote this entire list from memory before realising there’s a pattern to it. The colours I’m noticing are yellow and clay-coloured, golden and shimmery.

What colours are you noticing of late?

Leave a comment

The Sunday Wind-Down

As you probably know, I’m taking a break this month, so there will be NO SUNDAY WIND-DOWN SESSION this month. We’ll meet again in March.

One last thing

If you’re a paying subscriber, scroll to the bottom of this page for your free 45-minute class recording.

Have a beautiful month, dear one.

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This is truth.

Life

can be uncomplicated.

You might tell yourself it’s not true, that things must be difficult.

                           They needn’t.

But sometimes it takes a complicated act to see it,

like hopping into a vast network of extraction and specialised labour,

flying, quite unnaturally, over several continents,

and landing in a completely differe…

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Thanks so much for being here at Words & Yoga.

Today, I invite you to consider your own words, to pause before you respond, to practice listening first as an anchor for mindful conversation, and to always speak with satya (truthfulness).

Just as a mindful asana practice can deepen presence, release tension in the mind, and create spaciousness …

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Do you know about Substack? It’s the app that delivers this email to your inbox. If you’re happy reading newsletters as emails, that’s great. But you might want to download the Substack app. There are loads of great writers there, and it enables you to ‘like’ posts and interact in a much more positive way than I’ve seen on an…

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I distinctly recall, in years gone by, the feelings of gloom that accompanied January; the hangover from Christmas and New Year celebrations, cold, wintry days, and the extra daylight only serving to shed light on the harshness of the world.

These days. I like the quiet of winter. I’ve learned that you can decide how you view things, and I choose to see January as a magical month.

Winter is bone time, the only time it’s really possible to go right to the core, and this month, in my classes in-person and online, we’ll be focusing on the sacrum, that most sacred of bones.

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Os sacrum

In Latin, the sacrum was os sacrum (sacred bone).In ancient times, it was associated with fertility and life force, and is said, in the yogic texts, to be where kundalini resides: that potent, vital energy oft-described as a coiled serpent. When the snake awakens, it is said, it moves up the spine, bringing nourishment, cleansing and transformation.

I was taught the sacrum was the last part to burn during funeral rites, but this turns out to be a myth. No bone fully burns, and many large bones will remain intact: the skull, pelvis, femurs and spine, as well as the sacrum.

But still, the sacrum has its own charms.

Crucial for spinal health and stability, your sacrum is a bony structure that was once five extra vertebral segments. They fused when you were around ten years old, so there’s not much movement there these days. However, it does move gently:

• When you walk (from side to side)

• When you breathe (backwards and forwards)

• In rhythm with the fluid that bathes your spine and brain.

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Your brain and spinal cord are wrapped in a fibrous membrane that attaches inside the sacrum. Cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) rises and falls along the spine, making wave-like movements to nourish your nervous system, bring safe movement into the spine and remove waste.

This wave moves in time with your breath and your heartbeat, and your body, rather than attempting to control it, adapts to its rhythms. The movements affect your sacrum, creating tiny changes in tension in the membrane, so that it responds with its own minuscule movements.

You don’t necessarily feel these movements, but they ease pressure in the spine, pelvis and legs, guiding how forces move through these areas. You can imagine your sacrum like a rudder, gently navigating, balancing movement, responding to your breath.

Bridge between heaven and earth

In ancient times, the sacrum was seen as the seat of the soul, linked to resurrection. It was regarded as the home of your spiritual energy, nicknamed one’s own dwelling place.

As a centre of gravity in your body, the sacrum can be experienced as a bridge between the grounding sensations coming from the forces in your legs and the lightness you feel in the upper body when breathing smoothly and easily.

Your sacrum is a meeting point where balance and movement organise themselves. A yoga practice focused on the sacrum can be soothing and anchoring. What better for a cold January day?

Just as your vagus nerve plays a major role in the ‘rest and digest’ functions of organs in your upper body (heart, lungs, liver), so your sacral region houses nerves that support ‘rest and digest’ functions in the lower body (bladder, bowel).

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Sacral problems

Your sacrum can become a holding place for trauma and stuck emotions and its central position can make it a hub for pain and discomfort.

Here are some things to look out for:

• SI joint issues. Your SI (sacroiliac joint) links your sacrum to the pelvis and is responsible for transferring weight between the upper body and legs. Excessive ‘hip opening’ poses can stress the SI joint, leading to pain here.

• Sciatica. Inflammation of the sciatic nerve, which is part of the sacral plexus nerve bundle.

• Being a woman. Women are more likely to have problems here than men, because a woman’s wide hips (for birthing) can increase torque on the SI joint.

• Prolonged sitting and leg crossing. This can put more torque on the joint, leading to pain and discomfort.

Mid-winter practices for soothing and anchoring

If you have pain in the sacral region, proceed with caution. But do proceed. You want your pelvis and SI joint to move with your spine, so letting go of tension here (through mindful breath and movement) can help.

Remember, while gentle forward bends may release tension, asymmetrical poses can torque the ligaments. If you’re experiencing a flare-up, practice symmetrical movements only.

As always, move with care and curiosity.

1. Find your sacrum. Place your hands on your hips to find the hip bone, then walk them around to your back. Your sacrum is the triangular bone that sits between the iliac crests and above the tailbone.

2. Child’s pose. Curling upon yourself, your sacrum widens as your spine lengthens and your pelvic floor softens. This is a perfect position for introspection.

3. Lie on your back. Draw your knees to your chest. This is child's pose in reverse. What happens to your sacrum as you make gentle circles? As the knees come together, do you feel a gentle pressure? As they come apart, can you connect with the spaciousness?

4. Pelvic tilts. Flatten your lower back onto the floor and then gently arch it away. You can move with your breath. See what naturally arises.

5. Lie on your front. How does your sacrum feel here? You might experience a ‘pulling in’ sensation. Maybe it’s uncomfortable. Prone backbends (sphinx or cobra, for example) can build tone and strength in this region.

When moving from your sacrum, you’ll notice that all movement is connected to either your:

• Lumbar spine (above)

• Pelvic bones/hip joints (next to)

• Tailbone (below)

On this cool winter morning, I wish you joy in your practice and beyond.

The Sunday Wind-Down

I’m offering all paying subscribers the opportunity to join me once a month for a 45-minute Sunday wind-down session.

This month’s session will happen at the earlier time of 2-2.45 PM on Sunday, 25th January.

I’ll be sending the Zoom link to paid subscribers soon. If you’re not a paid subscriber but would like to join a session, you can do so here.

Interested in becoming a paid subscriber?

What you’ll get for the price of a posh coffee

🪷 All free subscriber benefits.

🪷 A monthly recording of one of my online yoga classes and access to the full archive.

🪷 Join my 45-minute Sunday wind-down session every month.

And don’t forget,

If you upgrade to a founding member, you can also join me for a gentle yoga session EVERY Monday morning, 9-9.45 am (UK/Lisbon time).

Please note. I’m taking a break from online classes in February.

One last thing

If you’re a paying subscriber, scroll to the bottom of this page for your free 45-minute class recording.

Have a beautiful and sacred month, dear one.

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