I encountered yoga for the first time when I was 16 years old. I no longer recall what led me to it, but remember vividly (as we all often do) my first time. The studio was a medium space, comfortably rectangular and lit naturally by dusky rays through a series of serendipitously well-placed windows. The walls were sparsely decorated, save a smattering of symbols and hanging talismans I did not recognize. The energy was good and calm, and I imagined the deep (or, perhaps, beautifully simple) meanings of the wall trinkets had something to do with it.

Friendly faced students quietly and methodically arranged their mats in two rows. Before I could join them, I met my first ever instructor, who I will never forget for what he showed me in that medium shaped room. He was not tall, but his presence was. His muscular physique revealed the athletic nature of the ashtanga style of yoga I was about to try. I would soon find that however athletic, this yoga is as much mind as it is body. He welcomed me with his also good and calm energy. Class began.

Fast forward to the present. Yoga has wafted in and out of my life through the years, though never absent for long (much like journal-keeping). In the past six weeks I experienced a surge of renewed interest in yoga, and began to practice regularly at home. I now feel that I brought yoga back into my life for the same reasons I started this blog late last year. I suppose I have been seeking a sense of peace with the present moment in light of the sudden uncertainty that comes with finishing school. I have also long been wanting vehicles for inward reflection and growth.

I return to Journal No. 8 with the spirit of yoga in mind. I want to nurture the good, calm, beautiful energy I create for myself when I write,

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