I’ve been reading this book called Eat, Pray, Love. I’m about halfway through it, and am on the second part of the author’s journey: India. I am truly moved by the honesty she portrays in her journey. And I can definitely identify. I’ve been doing yoga for about two year. The last year has been my most serious practice, and still it is not as serious as I would like to have it. The journey is so revelating, yet a little scary at the same time. Finding out so much about the true self is comforting, but it’s like meeting a stranger in your own skin. There is so much to learn out there, so many teachers and so many masters to follow, to hear from, to listen to. To teach how to meditate and listen to that inner voice that sings to me — instead of concentrating on the helen-monkey mind that is constantly going, going, going.

One day, I want to travel to India, to see where this ancient spiritual practice was derived from. How yoga has survived across generations, cultures, and religions is truly something special. There must be something powerful about it. And there is. Everyday I grow as a person, and every time I practice yoga, I become lighter, shinier, happier. The trick is to just be.