· This week's letter ·
Rituals
On stillness in the kitchen
Why my real practice happens before sunrise, in front of an old gas stove that needs persuading.
Read the letterNotes from the practice — handwritten in the early morning, before the world wakes up. A slow correspondence between teacher and reader.
Why my real practice happens before sunrise, in front of an old gas stove that needs persuading.
Read the letter
I left this city twice. The third time I came back, I understood what my body had been trying to tell me.
A meditation on the sacred pause that arrives every month, and what it asks of us if we listen quietly enough.
A small breath that has done more work, in more bodies, than any ten postures combined.
Why I close every practice by anointing the belly. A small ceremony I learned from my grandmother in the kitchen.
On the women in our lives who do not call themselves teachers, and who teach us anyway.
What happens to the body in the three days after we leave the riad — and why those days are part of the practice.
On the circles I have sat in, the elders who hold me, and the lineage I now carry forward.
Six women in a riad. A diary of what was spoken, what was unspoken, and the bread we tore at sundown.
A long letter to the woman I was at thirty — burnt out, ambitious, and unfamiliar with my own body.
Seven gentle practices that have helped the women I work with — and one prayer I say for them.