Richness

I wanted to share a prayer that was sent to me a while back. It got me thinking.

And I mean really thinking… the kind of thinking where you stare off into the distance like you’re in a dramatic movie trailer and suddenly question all your life choices.

Because here’s the thing: some of the richest people I’ve ever known have never had much money.
What actually makes someone rich? Their bank account? Their savings? Their bottom line?

(If so, I will respectfully exit this conversation.)

But what if “rich” was measured in friendships made, families gathered, sunsets watched, belly laughs shared, or communities held up when they needed it most?

What if that were the bottom line?

One thing is for sure: the world would be overflowing with wealth… and honestly, that’s the kind of inflation I can support.

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A Prayer to Truth

(Shared with deep reverence… and maybe a soft side-eye at my own humanity.)

In my heart, I accept my perfect Being.
I accept that the joy I intended is already in my life.
I accept that the love I prayed for has been sitting inside me this whole time (rude that it didn’t announce itself sooner).
I accept that the peace I asked for is already my reality.
I accept that the abundance I’ve sought is already here—even if sometimes it shows up disguised as chaos with a lesson taped to it.

In my truth, I accept my perfect Being.
I take responsibility for my creations, and everything within my life.
I acknowledge the power of God’s Holy Spirit within me, and trust that all things are as they should be—even the confusing, “what on Earth is this plot twist?” moments.

In my wisdom, I accept my perfect Being.
My lessons were hand-selected by my Self (which, honestly, feels like a bold move).
And now I walk through them fully, knowing my path is sacred and purposeful.
My experiences become part of All That Is.

In my knowingness, I accept my perfect Being.
In this moment, I sit in my golden chair (yes, I imagine it fabulously ornate),
And I know I am an angel of light.
I look upon the golden tray—the gift of Spirit—and I know my desires have already been fulfilled.
(Spirit stays booked and busy.)

In love for my Self, I accept my perfect Being.
I cast no judgment upon myself—past, present, or future.
I accept that everything in my past was given in love.
I accept that everything in this moment comes from love.
I accept that everything in my future will unfold into greater love.
And so it is.
—Leslie Callis

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After reading this, I can’t help but ask:
What defines you?
What makes you rich?
What fills your cup—or better yet, overflows it all over the table and onto everyone around you?

Are you willing to harvest your soul, nurture your spirit, and dare to experience your life fully?

Late fall is a beautiful time for that. A time for harvest. A time to toss out what refuses to grow. A time to reflect and fill ourselves with gratitude for what is—not what we wish it were.

It’s the season for deep-rooted, internal, excavational, soul-level spelunking.

Are you ready?

Let’s chase our dreams and leave a breadcrumb trail of kindness, compassion, love, gratitude, and big, sparkling zest behind us as we go.

With deepest gratitude and Thanksgiving,
Trish

Labor Day, Yoga, and the Radical Work of Embodiment

Labor Day arrives like a little cultural permission slip — one sanctioned pause from the grind. A day when we honor labor, though ironically, it often becomes another chance to cram in errands, eat too much potato salad, or scroll endless sales that scream, “Celebrate your rest by buying more stuff!”

But beneath the noise, Labor Day carries something essential: recognition of work. The effort, the sweat, the human energy poured into building, sustaining, and serving. And yoga — in its quiet, ancient way — has a lot to say about how we relate to that work.

Karma Yoga: The Attitude of Action

In yogic philosophy, karma yoga is the yoga of action. It reminds us that it’s not only what we do, but how we embody what we do. We can fold laundry as an act of frustration, or as an act of care. We can teach a class as a performance, or as service. The difference lies in presence — in how fully we inhabit ourselves while we act.

Labor without presence becomes strain. Labor with embodiment becomes sacred.

For the Student: The Labor of Returning to the Body

If you’re a yoga student, your labor isn’t measured in sweat or how long you hold Warrior II. Your true work is showing up and inhabiting yourself. Every time you step onto the mat, you’re asked to drop the world’s demands for productivity and tune into something quieter:

• How does my spine feel when I stand tall instead of collapsing into my laptop slouch?

• What happens in my nervous system when I allow my breath to slow?

• Can I rest without guilt, not because I’ve “earned it,” but because being alive is reason enough?

The labor of yoga practice is the labor of awareness. It’s less about achieving the pose and more about remembering the body is a home — not a machine.

For the Teacher: The Labor of Holding Space

If you’re a yoga teacher, your labor goes beyond cueing alignment or curating playlists (though let’s be real, that is a full-time job some days). Your deeper work is holding space for others to come home to themselves. You embody presence not only in your own body, but in the way you serve.

It’s not always glamorous — adjusting thermostats, answering student questions, carrying the weight of everyone’s energy while still trying to ground in your own. But when you teach from embodiment, your labor becomes sacred service. You’re not just teaching shapes; you’re guiding humans back to their aliveness.

Labor Day as Yogic Rebellion

So what if we let Labor Day be more than an extra day off? What if it became a reminder that the truest labor isn’t only out there in our jobs, but in here — in our bodies, our breath, our willingness to live fully awake?

Resting becomes radical. Slowing down becomes resistance. Embodiment becomes liberation.

So this Labor Day: nap like it’s your divine right. Feel the grass under your feet, the rise and fall of your breath. Grill your veggie skewers or burgers with joy. And remember:

You are not your labor. You are not your productivity. You are life itself — embodied, breathing, and enough.

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The Space Between Becoming and Belonging

There’s a moment in every practice—maybe after a long-held pigeon pose, or in the breath between one cue and the next—when everything feels suspended. Still. Undefined. A liminal space that asks nothing of us but honesty and presence.

It’s not quite the beginning anymore, but not yet the arrival.

This is the space of becoming.

Yoga invites us into these in-between moments—between inhale and exhale, between one phase of life and the next. Whether we’re stepping onto the mat for the first time or guiding others into it day after day, we all meet these thresholds. These soft edges. These quiet pauses where something deeper begins to stir.

And that stirring? That’s the invitation.

To stop reaching for the next big thing—and instead, to get curious about what’s already alive within us.

For students, that might mean listening more deeply to your own body’s rhythms. Asking new questions of your breath. Feeling into the subtle shifts of your nervous system, your energy, your intentions.

For teachers, it might mean unpacking old habits, tired language, or rigid alignment cues—and stepping into the wild, ever-evolving landscape of what it really means to teach from presence and care.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s time we all stopped measuring progress by how “advanced” a posture looks… and started sensing it in how intimately we understand ourselves, our patterns, our boundaries, and our ability to show up for others with clarity and compassion.

Advanced practice isn’t about performance.

It’s about embodiment.

And the only way to truly embody this path is to walk it—together, with curiosity, vulnerability, and the willingness to be changed.

What if the most profound part of your practice wasn’t the pose, the breath, or even the breakthrough—but the moment right before it?

That strange, silent beat where nothing is quite happening, and yet… everything is shifting. Not the start, not the finish. Just space. Waiting. Becoming.

We spend so much of life chasing the next thing—the next posture, the next training, the next version of ourselves that finally “gets it right.” But yoga isn’t asking us to get it right. It’s asking us to get real. To sit inside the spaces where clarity doesn’t come easy. Where growth isn’t a checklist but a lived, embodied process of remembering who we actually are.

The inhale doesn’t rush the exhale. So why do we rush our evolution?

Advanced practice doesn’t live in the shape of your backbend. It lives in your ability to pause, to notice, to stay. To meet yourself in the spaces between and ask: What’s here now? And how can I serve from this place?

This is the deeper work. The uncomfortable work. The honest, human, messy work of becoming. And it’s where true teaching begins.

This is the space between becoming and belonging—the tender, transformative terrain where we shed old skins and step into something more true. It’s not always comfortable, and it’s rarely linear. But it’s where the real work lives. Not in perfecting the pose, but in learning how to be with ourselves and one another more honestly. Our practice and THIS studio's community and culture meets us there—in the middle of the mystery—with tools, community, and the deep permission to evolve without needing to arrive.

If something in you is whispering, “I think I’m ready…”—then maybe you already are.

This space between becoming and belonging isn’t a detour—it’s the path itself. It’s where we learn to honor the process instead of the performance, to hold space for our own unfolding and that of others. It’s where we soften the need to arrive and instead root into presence, connection, and the truth that we were never meant to do this alone. In this in-between, we don’t just practice yoga—we live it. Together. Moment by moment, breath by breath, becoming a little more ourselves, and belonging a little more deeply, each time we choose to stay.

See you on your mat.

Onward and upward

Trish