I am not a yoga teacher. I’m a writer.

I will most surely write some things about yoga in this space because bodies fascinate me and there is something provocative about a philosophy that rich and that old. I am bewitched by human minds. I am curious about soulful living in a soul crushing world.

But this isn’t a yoga newsletter. I won’t be asking you to sign up for my courses or watch my videos. I might share a recipe, or tell you about cobblestones.

Fact is, most of the people who like my work like my writing.

The goddamned book is going to come out, eventually. It is a yoga memoir. But it will probably also blacklist me in much of the yoga community. The next book is going to be a murder mystery. And then something, perhaps, about New Orleans. Portugal. Or maybe rivers.

This space is just for mulls. Breathy, angry, loving, ruminative mulls. I believe in beauty. Most online writing is fast, pejorative, and intended to manipulate your feelings. Slow, crafted, literary writing can (must?) still thrive. That only happens with support from readers. Supporting an artist is not the same thing as buying or subscribing to content: I am not here to dance for you and I don’t expect you to read every email. If a line, or just that one essay, made a difference for you, please consider supporting me in return. A monthly subscription runs you less than a latte and contributes to the good in the world. Something more subtle - and I think vital - is at play here.

I thank you for your support.

I’m happy to refer you to a yoga teacher if you want.

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Loose updates will be posted on instagram. I will still guide philosophy courses, and work 1:1.