Fear and Curiousity: A Practice for Spooky Month

October has always been my favourite time of year. The cooler weather, the changing colours and of course, spooky season. Having grown up with a horror-loving older brother, scary movies and being scared were par for the course. I’m still an avid watcher of horror movies and reader of horror books. I’ve always enjoyed being scared – as long as it was from the comfort of my couch. 

 

But recently, fear has been creeping up into my real life instead of staying on the screen. As I navigate new career changes that I don’t yet know the outcome of, fear has become a rather uncomfortable thing. Turns out, my experience of fear completely changes when I can’t control the ending.  

 

And so, I’ve been revisiting my relationship with fear and how my yoga practice might help me explore it. 

 

Getting comfortable with the unknown

 

Fear can show up for us in so many ways, but I think it's often mixed up with the unknown. In her book, Wintering, Katherine May refers to October as the month that marks a transition between two phases of the year, that "ambiguous moment when you didn't know who you were about to become or what the future would hold.” And I think she’s right. Ambiguity is scary. When we’re on our mat, for example, we don’t always know what will happen when we lift one leg, whether we can hold a handstand or what a new pose will feel like. Life off the mat can feel that way too. 

 

When we find ourselves in these moments, we may not always want to confront the fearful emotions that go with them. Instead, we might build resistance to them or avoid them altogether. Perhaps we settle into familiar yoga practices or watch comfort movies to soothe ourselves. All of which are ok. Sometimes we need safety and a soft place to land.

 

Other times, we can choose to explore what happens when we’re ready to meet the unfamiliar. Rather than resistance, can we be curious about our fear without needing to get rid of it?  

 

Curiousity and choice

 

One way I’ve been exploring my fear on my mat is by first connecting to why I love practicing yoga. By reminding myself that my mat is a place of compassion, non-judgment and curiousity, I encourage my resistance to soften a little. In this way, I might start with a familiar pose or two and then invite something in that I am resistant to and notice what happens.

 

I’ll come to a downward dog, raise one leg into three-legged dog and then lower it. I’ll repeat that a few times and then, when I’m ready, I’ll add a hop with the other leg. Almost like I’m going to kick up into a handstand. After creating that little moment of uncertainty, I pause to notice:

 

What happened in my body just before the hop? 

What happened in my breath? 

Where did I tense? 

Can I stay curious while practicing this sequence?

Sometimes my curiousity tells me I can keep going and I try the same thing on the other side. Sometimes it tells me to modify, so I stick with moving my leg up and down in a three-legged dog without the hop. And sometimes it tells me that I’ve gone far enough, so I make my way to a child’s pose. Whatever choice I make, I know all of them are ok. 

Because what I’m learning is that the goal isn’t to be fearless. I don’t need to get rid of fear. We all experience fear and resistance at times. Whether it’s on the mat or in our life.

But we can choose how to respond to that fear. And I’m beginning to think that is our practice.

A fitting one for spooky season.

Begin Again: A September Intention

"You can always begin again."

It's a phrase I use often when I teach a balancing pose while we wobble, sway and, sometimes, place a foot back down. When we do, we can take a moment to feel the mat beneath our feet, take a breath and try again. 

Balancing poses are a wonderful way to practice presence – it’s hard to have a wandering mind while we are doing our best to stay upright in tree pose. It can also open up a little pocket of generosity within us. Maybe last week tree pose felt seamless and strong while today it feels shaky. We’re not always picking up right where we left off the last time we did a pose. Instead, we’re meeting ourselves in the current moment. And whatever that is, we can practice an openness to where we are and begin again from there. 

So, what might happen if we extended that same generosity we offer ourselves on the mat into the rest of our lives?

Back to music

About a month ago, I sat down at my piano after not having played for a year or two. Eager to get back into it, I opened a book to the last song I remembered playing, expecting to pick it right back up. My fingers glided over some notes and fumbled over others. I felt my frustration rise as I made mistakes and the melody felt awkward across the keys. 

I had to slow down.

I wasn’t picking back up where I left off the last time I played the song. I was beginning again. 

Like stepping down from a balancing pose after a big wobble, I felt the soft carpet beneath my feet and the smooth keys beneath my fingertips. I took a deep breath and looked at the song as if it was something new. I offered myself the grace I learned on my mat and with a smile, I started again. 

I hadn’t failed at playing the song, I had simply changed since the last time I played it. When I gave myself space to be different and remember that I love the act of playing piano, not just the outcome of the notes, I could be with my experience simply as it was.  

Begin again this September

September often feels like a big invitation to restart, whether it’s getting back into routines, getting organized before the cooler weather comes or coming back to the yoga mat at YCW. There’s a collective feeling of return in the crispier air as it breezes past us. 

As we find out way back to our yoga classes, whether it's been one week, one month or one year since the last time we were there, we can offer ourselves the opportunity to begin again. Instead of trying to “get back” to our previous practice with expectations of how it will be, we can give ourselves the gift of generosity. 

We can return to our bodies.

We can return to our breath.

And when we wobble, we can place a foot back down and start again. 

An invitation to return

Stand somewhere you feel safe and supported. Take three deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth.

Bring your attention into your feet as they ground into the floor beneath you. 

When you feel ready, shift your weight into one foot and gently lift the other.

Notice your experience.

Maybe you balance, maybe you wobble. Maybe your foot comes back down to the earth.

Whatever happens, begin again.

How does it feel to approach doing the action again without needing it to be different from the first time?

This is the invitation; a practice of generosity. 

More opportunities to begin again

As we settle into a new fall season, YCW turns 39! With the start of its 39^th year, the studio gives us a beautiful invitation to come back to the mat. Check out the YCW website to find all the practices that are waiting for you.

September is an invitation to begin again. 

And after that, we can begin one more time. 

Designing a Summer of Pauses

The summer sun is warming its way into the sky, and the trees are budding with green. After a slow Spring, it finally feels like Summer is arriving. At the library I work at, we’ve switched to summer hours and the children’s summer reading program is kicking off. All of these are signs that a new season is coming – one that often disrupts the routines we’ve perfected over the long winter months. 

Our usual yoga class may be shifted by weekends at the cabin or warm nights spent in the garden. As we adjust our schedule to the summer, how can we bring our yoga practice with us?

This year, I’m experimenting with a way to view the summertime with a concept borrowed from Robert Poynton in his book Do/Pause/ You are not a To Do List: envisioning my time as “inhale time” and “exhale time.”

Inhale and exhale time

Poynton describes “exhale time” as the time when we are doing things outside of ourselves. Things like working, teaching, or doing chores. “Inhale time” is the time when we are absorbing things that fill us up. Reading, being in nature, being with friends. 

This idea adds a new dimension to how you can look at your summer calendar, identifying things that feel like an “inhale” and those that feel like an “exhale.” Ideally, you want a balance of both, so that you can take a full breath each week.

Inhale and exhale time feels like an especially beautiful practice to bring off our yoga mats. We’ve spent time observing and getting to know our breath in class. Now, we can bring a similar kind of observation into our summer schedule. What parts of your week feel like “inhale time” and what parts feel like “exhale time?” 

For many of us, I suspect yoga is “inhale time,” so how can we make sure we have it during the long days of the season?

Little sips of breath

There is a breathing practice called cyclic sighing or “falling out breath” that many of us have likely tried in a yoga class. We deeply inhale and then take in a little more breath at the top before releasing a long-sighed exhale. It’s a breath practice that can help reset the nervous system. 

When I consider how to invigorate my yoga practice over the summer, I’m thinking about it like those extra sips at the top of a big breath. Little ways that I can take in more “inhale time” so I have what I need for the exhale times too. 

Just like the breath practice, a little can do a lot. Our yoga practice doesn’t have to be long to be valuable. Here are just a few ideas:

·      One pose is all it takes: A simple wall stretch with your hands on the kitchen counter while you wait your coffee to drip. Maybe a wiggle of your hips from side to side or a bending of the knees while there. Add a standing side bend when you emerge from pulling weeds in the garden or a bridge pose in bed before turning out the light.  

 

·       Short and sweet: Watching the sunset while joining Shauna in the Setting Sun Series in the YCW yoga library is a beautiful way to immerse into the full experience of the summer sun. A 5-minute chair yoga stretch before leaving your desk for the day or while sipping iced tea in the yard. 

 

·      Practice outdoors: Join class online or on rebroadcast and practice outside. On your cabin deck, on your balcony, in your yard, in the park. Connect directly to the earth beneath you, enjoy the sounds of the summer, and inhale deeply. If you find yourself available to join in studio, practice in community before emerging into the sunshine.  

Sink into summer yoga

Summer can feel short in Winnipeg, and it often feels like there is so much to do and see to soak it all in. Finding “inhale time,” like our yoga practice, can help us be even more present for all the gifts that summertime offers us. 

As Robert Poynton notes in his book “instead of trying to manage your time, pay more attention to finding your rhythm. You can make time, for yourself.” Finding little sips of yoga is one way to find that rhythm and make for a peaceful and joy-filled season. How are you going to inhale this summer?

Enjoy the sunshine and I’ll see you back on the blog in the fall!

The Beauty of Simple

I am a recovering black thumb. Having lived in apartments and condos as an adult, I’ve never had a garden of my own and houseplants would wither at the sight of me. But, with some sustained effort and patience over the last few years, I now have several houseplants that brighten up my space and clean the air around me.

So, when I woke up one morning to a tiny leaf sprouting on one of them, I was overjoyed. A smile was plastered on my face the rest of the day. Now, as I sip my morning coffee, I check in on that little leaf and my heart warms watching it grow.

It’s such a simple joy. 

Which got me thinking – not only about joy, but about the depth within simplicity.  That tiny green leaf looks simple, but everything happening beneath the surface to make it possible isn’t.  

A Simple Practice

As I’ve settled into YCW’s Trauma-Sensitive Yoga series the past few weeks, I feel a little like that leaf.  

Jennifer guides us through a gentle practice that may look “simple” on the surface. We move through fewer poses and repeat many of them weekly. There is a calm and open atmosphere – even online – that we are invited to explore our experience in. What Jennifer ultimately helps us create in each class is space. Space to check in with the body, to feel our sensations, and to choose when to stay, adjust, or step out. 

Inherent in this practice, as Jennifer tells us, is choice and noticing.

On the outside, I may simply look like I’m in wall stretch. On the inside, a quiet complexity is unfolding. Sensations are shifting, thoughts are arising, emotions are moving through me. I leave each practice a little different, even if I can’t name it yet. There’s a certain kind of contentment in that.

Bringing Simple into Every Day

In my own practice and teaching lately, simplicity has been a theme. Slowing down and anchoring into one body action at a time. 

Shaking my right arm out and feeling those sensations. Then the left. Shaking out the right leg and letting it ripple through my body. Then the left. People in my classes have laughed like we’re doing the hokey pokey. 

Maybe we are.

There’s something beautifully simple about reconnecting to a childlike perspective. Observing our body with curiousity rather than expectation. What could we find if we approached our practice again with a beginner’s mind? 

Take a Moment of Simplicity 

Wherever you are reading this – sitting down, lying down, standing up – bring your attention into your feet. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

Wiggle your toes. 

What shifts, even slightly, in the rest of your body? What thoughts or sensations flow in?

Wiggling my toes is something I often do. While I’m standing in line at the grocery store, stopped at a red light, reading on my couch, or waking up my body after savasana. It’s a simple practice, but it brings me right back into my body, onto the earth, and into the moment. 

Just like the little leaf on my houseplant, growing up from the roots, we can grow too. Little by little, practice by practice. 

Imagine what we could nourish this Spring with a little simplicity.

A Springtime Invitation to Renew

Teachings come

from everywhere when you open

yourself to them. That’s the trick of

it, really. Open yourself to everything,

and everything opens itself to you.

Richard Wagamese in Embers: One Ojibway’s Meditations

Spring in Winnipeg

As Spring slowly finds its way into Winnipeg, I can’t help but notice a little bit of opening everywhere I look. Melting snow and ice reveals patches of sidewalk and grass, my shoulders come away from my ears allowing my neck to feel the breeze without a scarf, and even the potholes keep my eyes wide open while I drive. 

There’s a feeling of emerging in my neighbourhood too. There are more dog walkers on longer walks. A neighbour in my building recently offered up some of her houseplants to go to new homes. We’re all warming up, coming out of hibernation, ready to renew our relationships with each other and the outdoors.

And so, Richard Wagamese’s words feel like a beautiful invitation for Springtime. What can we open up to? And what teachings will come when we do?

A yoga renewal

I recently began teaching a chair yoga class and while I initially wondered how it might limit what we could do, it’s actually opened up a new aspect of my practice and teaching.

Triangle pose has long been difficult for me. I often focus on the actions in my feet and legs, losing attention to my chest and neck. Then I tried triangle seated in a chair and taught it to my class. 

When I did, my focus naturally moved up my body. With my lower body supported, I noticed a freedom in my chest and neck. I experienced the feeling of the air between my fingertips as we lengthened our side bend a little more and found an open twist in the pose. It was like a whole new triangle-shaped world. 

When we then moved to utthita hasta padangusthasana B with one foot on a chair seat, I felt the similarity to the triangle shape in my body rather than simply intellectually knowing their similar structures. Further still, when I practiced my usual standing triangle pose in my vinyasa class, I felt my whole body engage. The usual focus on my legs had broadened and the pose felt like new. All because I tried triangle in a chair. I opened myself up to something different and, like Richard Wagamese said, a teaching came. 

An invitation to open

It’s an often-repeated idea that small changes add up to big differences. In a recent conversation with a nutritionist, she advised that the only changes she would encourage me to make right now were to drink more water and take a multivitamin.

“That’s it?” I asked her.

“That’s it.” 

She wanted to see the difference first of these tiny changes before making any bigger ones. The same principle is what organically appeared in my practice of triangle pose by simply trying it sitting down. This small change rippled through the rest of my practice, reminding me how openness can renew our spring yoga classes in unexpected ways.  

Renewing our yoga practice

On the mat, that can be as simple as trying a pose in a different way. Whether it’s a wall stretch in place of a downward dog or focusing on the feeling of the fingertips as you move from Warrior I to Warrior II.  

Perhaps it’s trying a different kind of class. If you gravitate towards flow, try Kaiut or Yin. If you enjoy the quietness of Relax and Restore, perhaps try the gentle flow of Kripalu. Move through a few seated poses while you watch television or listen to a podcast. Practice in the morning instead of the evening or welcome the Springtime in through the Spring Sadhana.

If we look around, there are endless ways to open ourselves to everything. Both on our mat and off of it.

How are you opening this season?

Making Peace with Transitions

My dog, Alfie, hates transitions. While he loves being on a walk, getting out the door involves running under the bed first. He loves playing at doggie daycare but shakes in my arms between the car and its entrance. Sometimes I wonder if he picked up this dislike from me. Because I too, find transitions difficult. I want to skip to the end rather than sit in the in-between; I want to arrive in Summer and breeze right through the messy parts of Spring.

Knowing this, I found myself wondering how (or if) my discomfort with transitions shows up on my yoga mat and how I could learn to work with that discomfort.

What I noticed is that I’m always interested in getting to the next pose, not in all the little movements that get me there. Half the time, they’re so habitual, I don’t even see them. I simply arrive in the forward bend from downward dog with no idea how my feet went from one to the other. Like the autopilot of driving the same route every day, portions of my yoga practice were missing my attention.

As we journey from one season to the next with the Spring Equinox, it seems the right time to slow down and notice the in-between. Instead of letting Spring be a blur, I want to bring it back into focus. 

A Lesson from Winnie the Pooh

I recently read A Walk in the Wood: Meditations on Mindfulness with a Bear Named Pooh by Dr. Joseph Parent and Nancy Parent and found myself struck particularly by a story of Pooh walking in the woods with no destination. 

In the book, the authors explore mindfulness using stories of Winnie and his friends. In this one, the idea of “aimless wandering” is introduced. Pooh goes on a walk in the woods for no reason other than to “just notice.” He’s not trying to get somewhere; he’s firmly planting himself in the transition between places. He has no other goal aside from being aware of what’s around him. Being present as he takes each step and embracing the moments between each one with openness and a sense of joy. 

It seemed deceptively simple when I read it. Until I tried to do a mindfulness walk and got caught up in how to be both mindful and aimless. As a result, I did neither. So, I came to my mat to explore these ideas and practice them. 

“Aimlessly wandering” on the mat

Mindfully moving between poses and aimlessly wandering through my practice seemed to be in conflict at first. Isn’t mindfulness about presence and intention? How can that come together with aimlessness? 

That, I realized, is the practice.

When I dig below the surface of my dislike of transitions, it is partly about a lack of control. Springtime can be chaotic: the weather can be unruly, green bursts out wherever it can, melting snow means messy streets. Transitions in life can be the same. Each day can become unpredictable and it’s difficult to avoid making a mess before the roots of something new take hold. 

When I move from downward dog to uttanasana, it might not be fluid or smooth. It might take a few steps, maybe my knees need to stay bent, or maybe I stepped with my left foot first instead of my right and now I’m off kilter. 

Instead of closing my eyes and rushing through these moments, I can slow down and embrace them instead.

Making friends with transitions

I can intentionally notice the steps from downward dog to uttanasana, the turning of the toes from 5-pointed star to Warrior II, or the step back into a lunge. I can “aimlessly wander” by trusting that I will move into the next pose and focus instead on all the moments and actions that get me there. 

The sensations in the feet, the coolness of breath, the changes in my body as it rearranges itself. The practice will unfold and I can be fully present as it does, allowing myself to wander to its end by noticing all the spaces in between.

Off my mat, I can practice taking mindful walks like Pooh and engage with the changing season around me. I can notice my breath as I sit at a stop sign or red light, perhaps relaxing my fingers if they’re gripping the wheel. I can stop before I answer a text and feel the weight of the phone in my hands and its smooth glass surface.

By bringing these mindfully aimless moments into my life, maybe – just maybe – I can begin to make friends with transitions. Perhaps Alfie will too. 

How do you embrace transitions?

When Getting on the Mat Feels Hard

A mantra and an invitation

 

“Move the body, the mind will follow."

 

This phrase has become an oft-repeated mantra since I was a child. My mum and I first heard it from a priest and while I don't recall how it connected to his sermon, we took the sentiment home with us. As a moody teen, my mum would repeat it to me when I'd try to weasel out of a get-together with friends or a bike ride we'd planned on. 

 

When she did, I'd purse my lips in protest, but ultimately, I'd give it a shot. Because implicit in its meaning is that it’s an invitation, not a command.

 

Just try. No expectations.

 

Arrive at the get-together or commit to five minutes of bike riding. If your mind hasn't caught up by then, then give yourself permission to stop. Excuse yourself from your friends. Turn the bike around. But most of the time, being out with friends or moving my body was exactly what I needed. 

 

And so, I've found this little adage to be a gentle friend ever since.

 

Feeling frozen in February

 

In the cold days of February, when the mornings haven't quite lightened yet and my new year intentions may be shaky, this mantra never fails to bubble up again and again. 

 

Just the other week I lamented to myself that I didn't want to get on my mat and I also didn't want to go to the sewing class I'd recently started. I know that yoga helps me feel good in my body. And I was so excited when I'd signed up for sewing class. So, what gives?

 

"Move the body, the mind will follow."

 

Sometimes when the thought comes to me, I still glare at it - the moody teenager lives inside me forever - but I always invite myself to try. Start with five minutes of movement. Get myself ready for sewing class. Then see if my mind follows, without expectation of the result. 

 

Like the role of the observer we cultivate in yoga, let the next few moments be an open exploration of what comes up.

 

When the mind follows

 

When I take the invitation to try, I keep it simple. Spend 10 minutes on the mat. Do a yoga snack. Or simply get in the car before deciding if I'll go to class. Most times, this is enough to get my mind to follow my body's lead.

 

When it does, I try to take a moment to offer myself gratitude for taking the first step. I also notice how things feel afterwards. Maybe my mind feels calmer or my body feels more energized. This pause (when I remember to do it!) encourages me to continue to answer my mantra's nudge next time. 

 

There are days though, when my mind stays put despite moving my body.

 

When the mind doesn't follow

 

I may have tried some sun salutes and my mind is still aching to be on my couch. I got into the car for sewing class, but I can't bring myself to start the engine. Before I default to calling it a day, I pause and sink into the moment. With an observer's mind, I ask myself, "What do I need right now?" and listen for what comes up. 

 

In some cases, skipping class isn't what my mind is really asking for. It might be that it needs restoration. Or it needs quiet, but not solitude. My yoga practice can meet me here too. 

 

This is when unwinding with others in a Relax and Restore class or finding peace in a Yoga Nidra workshop become intentional opportunities to support myself. Almost like I'm going on a mini-retreat that's only a few minutes from home (or even in my living room!). In this way, the practice doesn't end when my mind doesn't follow, it simply explores a different part of the path.

 

A practice of love

 

What I've ultimately learned from the many years that "move the body, the mind will follow" has whispered into my ear is that it's a chance to pause and reflect. It encourages me to ask myself what I really need and give myself space to answer. 

 

And each time, I build a little more self-love. I'm following through on a commitment to myself, whether it's getting on my yoga mat or making it to my sewing class. Even if I didn't physically make it to class, I tried for a few minutes. That is still showing up for myself. And it sets the stage for me to do it next time too. 

 

This childhood mantra that irked me as a teen has ultimately evolved into a loving way to check in with myself and continue to learn all that yoga has to teach me. I hope it's helpful for you too. 

 

What's a five-minute invitation you can give yourself today?

 

Ahimsa in action: a practice for 2026

New year, new intention

Coming into the new year, it’s often a time when we consider (or make) resolutions for what we want to do for the next 12 months. While I’m not usually one for resolutions, I do like to make a yearly intention. 

Something to cultivate within myself and bring into my actions outside myself. A guiding light through the dark months of winter blooming in the warmer seasons. In yoga, we often set intentions at the beginning of practice, which is a perfect way to continue to commit to my yearly intention and allow it to shift and expand as the year progresses.

Recently, I saw a video by @yogawithtahara that has been working its way into my mind and body in such a way that it has become my 2026 intention: Ahimsa.

Non-harming

Ahimsa is one of the yamas, which are practices to guide our actions in the world. Ahimsa is often translated as non-violence or non-harming. @Yogawithtahara talked about this yama as not only a practice of the big ways of non-harming, but the small ones too. Like becoming mindful of the energy we bring into a space, how we interact with the people in it, and how we treat the space itself.

In short, she described ahimsa as consideration. 

Of our energies, of the space around us, of the people we are among. It’s a way of steadfastly being in community. And that is something I want to practice more of.

Starting on the mat

Our yoga mats are a place we can practice not only our poses, but also the broader teachings of yoga, like the yamas. So, it feels like the perfect place to take this 2026 intention of ahimsa and begin to engage with it. 

It starts with how I arrive at the studio. Perhaps I take a breath before I open my car door or as I walk up the steps to check in with myself. How am I feeling? What energy am I bringing with me today? Allowing myself to show up however I am while also considering the energy that I am bringing into the place I am going. When I walk into the studio, I can lead with consideration for the teachers, for the front desk staff, and for the other practitioners I am sharing space with.

More practically, I can double-check that my phone is off, so I don’t accidentally disrupt my class and avoid wearing scents that could impact the person who practices next to me. As I make my way into Studio A or B, I can take a moment to let the class before me depart, giving them a chance to make a peaceful transition into the rest of their day. 

When I step across the threshold into the room, I can remind myself that my energy contributes to the communal energy of our practice together. Placing my mat down and my belongings at the front of the room, I can gather my props with care and quiet. In this way, I am in consideration of the shared tools we use in practice and of those who are readying themselves for it. It’s ahimsa in action.

When I step onto my own mat, I can do it with intention. How do I want to show up in my life? In my community off the mat? I can begin it right here, in this little studio village, becoming mindful of every piece of it. From the props on my mat to the pictures that adorn the walls, to the fellow villagers that I will be with for the next hour or two. 

Begin again

This way of practicing ahimsa feels like another way to engage in cultivating presence: one that is rooted in compassion. And because of that, there is always an opportunity to begin again, because I know I will falter. That’s part of the human journey, isn’t it? Here, on the mat, and in each moment and each day, I can always restart. Whether it’s January 1 or December 31.

An intention with roots

As I write this, I’m at the end of the Winter Solstice Sadhana, where Shauna has been sharing a beautiful quote adapted from Thich Naht Han and Richard Wagamese each morning. It feels like a perfect way to both end this post and begin again in the next moment, with ahimsa: 

“Waking up each morning I smile. I have 24 new hours to live. I choose to greet the day with presence, compassion, and joy. I give thanks for the blessings that are already in my life. With gratitude and humility, I enter the journey of today.”

Happy 2026, Yoga Centre Winnipeg. I look forward to practicing with you again this year.