My happiest childhood memories are turning cartwheels and handsprings. Ecstasy was standing on my head and falling into backbends and splits. To dance was to breathe. It was a magical time. A simple time.
A time when the mention of yoga brought blank stares. My local bookstore reserved a small section for eastern philosophy. Nestled amidst the esoteric books was a slim volume filled with tiny ink drawings of figures in strange contortions. I was fourteen and intrigued. The Sanskrit names eluded me but I couldn’t wait to bend and twist into these fascinating shapes.
Thus began my journey. In my solitude, I studied the drawings and loved the challenge of the postures. Elated, I pushed to my limits. My little yoga book was transforming my world.
Years later, in an eastern religion course, the simple text began to illuminate. Yoga was not merely exotic tricks or healing for the body but an ancient philosophy. It was an art and science developed to prepare the body for the more rigorous practice of stilling the mind.

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