There are million types of yoga. Every time I turn around I see somebody inventing a new style. Anybody can get some movements together, create a series and then call it whatever they want to. I like that. The more options people have the easier people will find what fits them the best.

It has taken a good three years and a variety of many classes to find the type of yoga where my heart feels at home.

Now I know that yoga is the easy way for me to dealing with any of my problems. My practice heals me. It’s magical.

When chaos is around me I find my peace on my mat, and sometimes I don’t even use my mat, the carpet can do it, all I need is to start moving and breathing. Usually at home I go to my meditation room, and with my dog licking my face and getting in the middle of whatever I am doing, I start. There is no perfect moment, there is no perfect space, but yet there is: it’s right where you are at this very moment. I’ve had moments where I needed yoga so bad that I ended my practice crying. Pouring out all that negative energy that sometimes I absorb through the day. Or at other times in my practice, I feel the bliss that I can never explain with words.

I bow to you, the darkest of the teachers, the alcoholics and addicts, the ones that have touched self distruction and come out and looked me in my eyes with humble pride. The ones that where there to show me it is possible, the ones that share their practice with me. To you, I bow with enourmous gratitude.