Thinking Yogi

The intersection of two loves: yoga and writing.

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As we’ve been celebrating and reflecting on Bloom’s 10 year anniversary with our staff, teachers, and students over the past month, certain conversational themes have continually reemerged.

“Can you believe it’s been 10 years? How does it feel?”

They’re hard questions to answer. On one hand it feels like the time has flown by, and on the other I can’t remember what used to occupy my thoughts when I wasn’t musing about yoga class schedules, massage appointments, the best way to build community, or how to continually improve our teacher training curriculum. I can’t recall a time when I didn’t have to fight the urge to keep working late at night or on weekends because of a pesky sentence in my latest blog post that just wasn’t quite right. Zach and Kerry at Bloom's Grand Opening in 2004

How do you describe the experience of spending each day focused on the tasks at hand – gradually growing our class offerings and developing new programs – then waking up one day at a party with 100 smiling faces toasting the fact that 10 wonderful years have gone by?

It feels like a time warp, it feels just right, it feels like yoga. Now a decade in, I know so much more about what’s important and where to let go.

When Zach and I were first married 14 years ago, we struggled to find that very balance. We were young, strong-willed, competitive, playful, and fiercely in love. Our good days were exquisitely fun, inspiring, and full of laughter. Our bad days, well….

We spent a lot of time in those first few years learning how to fight. At our weekly doubles tennis match with another young couple, half the time one of us would throw a racket or storm off the court enraged at the others’ unsatisfactory play, and we wouldn’t talk to each other for the rest of the day. Those fights felt so important in the moment (and surely they were – I mean, tennis is serious business). Our poor tennis friends couldn’t understand why we cared this much about a game. But it wasn’t what we were fighting about that mattered. What mattered was learning to communicate, to disagree, to express strong emotions, and to parse out what counts and what should just be forgiven and forgotten.

Thanks to those tumultuous early years and our hours of conversational nit-picking, after slugging through day after day of little fights, pettiness, and silliness, Zach and I are now able to work our way through a disagreement in a much more civilized way. So much so that I sometimes have a similar shock of recognition, a feeling of amazement as if I just woke up one day and we knew how to communicate. Because it's such a stark contrast it can be tempting to see it as more a magical transformation than a gradual evolution, as if those 14 years of consistent conversations had nothing to do with it. But truly, it was slow and often very painful (especially for our friends who had to witness it), and now here we are.

My relationship with Bloom has undergone a similar evolution, though fortunately much less dramatically since Zach and my relationship provided the training wheels for learning this process of gradual change. Rather than having to deal with drama or petty fights at Bloom, challenging incidents would pop up, like in early 2005 at our very first Midnight Yoga workshop when we had 35 enrolled students and a waitlist and we also discovered a serious leak in the studio where class was to be held just an hour before start time. I ran around like a crazy person, placing buckets and towels and calling our property management company with politely-worded threats about why this was an emergency that needed immediate resolution (as if a leak is ever that easy). Though it was not how I’d envisioned our first big workshop going, class went fine despite the musical accompaniment of drops in buckets and a blue tarp sprawled across a ladder decorating the room.

What I know now after years of day-in and day-out operations is that there's always something. In the early years, I’d face a challenge that seemed devastating at the time (a beloved teacher moving out of state, an unhappy student, a leak, a technology fail that meant we couldn’t run credit cards during a busy class sign-in). As I was dealing with the incident I’d console myself with the thought that when this was over, things would go back to normal.

But like life and love, there’s no normal with a small business. There is only change. The yoga of long-term commitment is knowing that you can’t always predict what the change will look like, but if you let go a little and roll with it, you’ll make it through just fine.

As a young married couple and new business owners we approached every problem like it was the first time anyone in the world had faced such a challenge, but 10+ years of commitment and consistency has shown us that, thankfully, we are not unique. The world has seen infinite other loves, other fights, other businesses before us, and will see many more after us.

10+ years feels like trust and steadiness, even when the ground is shaky. It’s knowing that when the city tore up our street right before our big 10 year anniversary party, it was inconvenient but survivable. We trust that opening our doors every day and doing our very best has gotten us this far, and will move us into the future, too. I’m infinitely grateful for both my wonderful husband and the incredible community that is Bloom. These experiences of love, challenge, and commitment have helped me grow in more ways than I can name. Here’s to the next 10 years of both, day by day. I can only imagine where we’ll go in that time.

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Posted by on in Health



I used to be a bit of a yoga snob.

As a young, vigorous practitioner, I prided myself on being able to keep up with the most challenging sequences my teacher could throw at me. When rest was presented as an option, I most often declined and chose the harder pose variation instead. I viewed child's pose with something resembling disdain. To me it was either a throwaway that I waited out before moving on to a more exciting variation, or it was what I resorted to when I couldn't cut it, when I was too weak or too tired to do the 'real pose.'

At the time, I was an undergraduate at what I then considered peak physical condition and I had nothing but time on my hands to practice yoga, dance, and obsess over the healthiest brand of tofu at my local food co-op. Now 16 years later, I'm the mother of two young children, a business owner, a wife, and (as much as I can make the time) an individual with creative aspirations.

My practice has shifted a great deal over the past 16 years, and I'm currently enjoying moderation on my mat. More than any other time in my life, I'm balancing out my active practice with consistent gentle and restorative work. I feel stronger, healthier, and more relaxed than I have in years.

Even so, though most days I'm inspired on the mat, other times I notice myself slipping into boredom or complacency. The poses seem to lose their magic, and I wonder why they're not 'working' any more. If the pose is the same one I practiced the week before and it felt great then, what's different now?



Yoga poses serve as a structure into which to fit your physical, mental, and emotional self. They are shapes you return to in order to observe what's the same and what's different. They are touchstones that reveal how life is wearing on you.

I love how as a yoga practitioner you circle back to the same shapes, the same practices over and over again. Depending on the day or the month or the year, those same poses allow you the opportunity to find something delightfully different. But you have to pay attention.

Take child's pose, for example. At various points over the course of the past 16 years of practice, child's pose has felt entirely different to me. It has gone from being a throwaway pose to a place to deeply experience the breath in my back body. Now as I move into child's pose I'm fascinated by the lengthening sensation in my lower back and the stretch in my shoulders. I savor the nurturing feeling of folding inward into such a simple, humble shape. To look at my experience of child's pose from one year to the next is to look at the changing nature of my mind, body, and breath.

Yoga practice teaches you to be more observant, to be more aware as you explore what is new in your body during your time on the mat. This keen observation is a wonderful skill to practice, but it's not the end goal.

What good would it be if you were totally aware and fully present in child's pose or down dog or tree pose, but then when you came home from class you snapped at your loved ones for having left dirty dishes in the sink?

Once you have practiced observing how these shapes affect your state of being over and over on your mat, once you have trained your mind to pay attention in the 1000th downward facing dog you have done this year so you can notice how this particular pose on this particular day is different rather than going on autopilot, you are better equipped to do it off the mat.

When you say hello to the person behind the grocery checkout counter, maybe you'll really look him in the eyes. When a friend asks you how you're doing, you may genuinely respond and connect with her to find out how she is instead of just going through the motions.



It's been 8 years since we opened our doors at Bloom. Each November since we've opened, I reminisce about how things have changed from those early days and how they have stayed the same.

Though many things have changed, our core mission is still the same and drives every decision I make at Bloom. I'm passionate abut inspiring people to find greater health and happiness on a daily basis, and I'm always exploring new ways we can help our students do just that. Bloom continues to be a welcoming community that makes the rich tradition of yoga accessible to those who are looking for a fun, clear, down-to-earth way to integrate it into their daily life.

When I think about the many child's poses that have been practiced in our studios over the past 8 years, and I share a smile or a hug with one of the many practitioners of said pose and hear about the happiness or sadness in their life in this moment, and I recollect the joys and sorrows of last year and the year before and so on, I know that it's all the same and it's all different.

And through it all child's pose remains.

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