selecting a yogi

Yesterday I graduated from Yoga Teacher Training. The relationships I've fostered and distinctions I've made over these last 8 weeks have set me up for a kind of success I wouldn't have imagined otherwise. Cheers to a renewed love affair with my body, a glorious affirmation of my spirituality and hundreds of loads of sweaty laundry to come!

And as for the beautiful men and women of this enchanted planet; we are stories in the telling, and endings waiting to be written...

"Selecting a Yogi" by, Erica Jacobs

 First, I would have her be fidgety—

squirm in her skin,

adjust the waist of her pants, often,

shuffle heavy on her feet.

She would exist in hesitation.

She doesn’t know why she’s here,

But I do.

An over-sized, tattered shirt canopies her curves,

while her hair, thousands of thick brown strands, crowd her tense shoulders.

On a borrowed yoga mat, she nervously stands at attention,

waits for my cue.

I encourage her to take this slow—

move with grace,

practice with patience.

I ask her to be a little more here and a little less there.

 I teach her to become a ragdoll—

a submissive, ancient toy;

silently durable,

secretly comforting.

Shallow breath in this pose,

her paunchy mid-section compressed.

 She blindly follows my voice as we flow,

One breath, one movement—









 A series of mishaps, frustration, minor slips, shaky limbs.

She is disappointed, confused, defeated.

Suddenly, her body calls out to me.

It’s asks, am I doing this right?

Am I good? Do you see me?

My confident hands answer


 On we go—











 And without even thinking, without second guessing,

she becomes a warrior—

Her hips, open.

Her arms, stretch.

Her chest, proud.

She’s knows where she’s been,

She’s certain where to go.

I watch her transform.


I guide her down to the earth.

I tell her to relax her toes

sink her legs, her spine, her fingers.

She softens her face, loosens her grip in so many ways.

I can see her am I doing this right? start to fade.

Am I good? closes it’s heavy curtain.

A ragdoll,

Turned warrior,

Spun into a praying chair

Made a gorilla,

Contorted into a crow

Now a quiet corpse.

 I see her for who she is—

She is a story in the telling,

An ending, waiting to be written.

 I’ll think I’ve done my part. I’m certain she will be back.

She'll think, for that kind of money, I can buy fitted shirts. And she will.