What The Notes Didn't Capture
Reflections from PuneTable of Contents
As many of you know, I’m spending this month in Pune at RIMYI, immersed in study and practice.
It is a rare gift to be a full-time student again. To wake up and know that my primary responsibility for the day is to pay attention. To practice. To listen. To learn.
And yet, every time I come here, I have a now-familiar worry that sits just below the surface:
Will this be worth it? Can I really justify this time away?
As many of you know, I’m spending this month in Pune at RIMYI, immersed in study and practice.
It is a rare gift to be a full-time student again. To wake up and know that my primary responsibility for the day is to pay attention. To practice. To listen. To learn.
And yet, every time I come here, I have a now-familiar worry that sits just below the surface:
Will this be worth it? Can I really justify this time away?
So…
We had been working on forward bends and there was one particular evening class that really got to me.
The sequencing was brilliant.
The instructions were penetrating.
The pace was challenging yet exhilarating.
It was strong and soft at the same time.
Intense, yet deeply introspective.
Clearly, yes, I loved it.
Usually, after a late class, I’ll have a light snack, jot down a few notes, shower, and head to bed. But after this one, I was absolutely famished. I made a proper dinner. It took longer than expected and by the time I finished eating, the combination of deep forward bends and a full meal left me with zero interest in “left brain” mode.
No notes. Straight to bed.
The next day, a friend kindly offered to send me hers. I was grateful. The felt sense of the class was still vivid in my body, but the details were already slipping.
When I opened her notes, my first thought was:
Wait… this isn’t the right class.
Then I read it again.
Certain sections were kind of familiar. Hmm. Maybe it was the right class?
Given how over the moon I had been about the practice, it was strange not to immediately recognize the sequence. On paper, it looked so ordinary. Just a list of relatively simple poses. It certainly did not convey the “wow” I had felt in the room.
The sequence on paper was flat.
In the room, it was transformative.
While I couldn’t reconstruct the entire class by heart, a few key things stayed with me. One instruction in particular was referenced multiple times across several asanas.
Raya had asked us to imagine a second pair of feet at the bottom of the thighs, just above the knees, and to reach strongly into those new heels.
That image has been transforming my legs all week!
For those of you who hyperextend or who are looking for clearer access to the hamstrings, it’s worth exploring. I remember him referencing it in Prasarita Padottanasana and in Sirsasana, but I’ve since applied the action in many other asanas.
The alertness in my back thighs.
The firmness and clarity in my legs.
The sense of direction in the bones.
All shifted because of this one visualization.
And here’s the part that fascinates me:
This instruction, which felt so profound, did not even appear in the notes.
It’s remarkable how differently the same teaching can land. As teachers, we know what we intend to convey. But how it is received, that’s another matter entirely.
This is part of why being here matters so much.
It’s not about collecting new sequences. It’s not about “achieving” more advanced poses, and it’s certainly not about levels of certification.
It’s about being exposed to nuance again and again. Hearing the same idea approached from slightly different angles. Receiving a familiar instruction in a body and mind that are just a little more receptive than they were yesterday.
Repetition in practice is not redundancy. It is refinement.
When we return to a particular exploration of an asana—or return to a teacher week after week—or in my case, year after year—something subtle begins to integrate. We cannot possibly absorb every instruction, inflection, analogy, and action all at once.
Repetition allows for consolidation.
It allows depth.
It creates the conditions for something that once felt ordinary to suddenly feel profound.
The pose may be the same.
The practitioner never is.
And this is why I come.
For the chance to encounter something I think I already know and discover that I don’t. To sit in a room where the “wow” is embodied, even if the notes later look ordinary.
Every time I ask, Is this worth it?
Every time, the answer is most definitely, yes.
xo, /stephanie.
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