Decades of devotion
My first yoga class was in 1997, held in a high school classroom, through an adult ed program. A small group gathered on Tuesday nights on the cold and dusty tile floors. I don’t remember much from this introduction, aside from the teacher frequently referencing Light On Yoga by BKS Iyengar. I was 19 years old, I’m pretty sure I wore my pajamas to class. Yoga pants hadn’t been invented yet.
My early years of practice were casual, as yoga studios were few and far between in New Hampshire and Maine. I worked in bookstores in those years, and read my way through historical yoga texts, and asana guides. In my early twenties, I lived in Dover, NH and started taking classes at Dover Yoga Studio (owned by Carrie Tyler). They offered a variety of lineage-based yoga classes, and I studied regularly in Iyengar classes.
Around 2001, this studio hosted a teacher training with Kim Valeri, who operated YogaSpirit Studios. At the time, Kim was a student of Patricia Walden’s and we learned alignment ideals from the Iyengar style. I signed up for the 200 hour with a common thought: I just wanted to learn more, and I had no interest in teaching. Somewhere along the way, I burned through some layers of awkwardness and shyness about public speaking. It felt all so new then: the studio was new, the teachers were new, even the training program was new. With fondness, I can say that these early experiences taught me a lot about how not to teach. It was an essential time for me to try and to grow and to fumble.
Right after my training, I lived at Kripalu for two months, washing dishes and scrubbing toilets. I took classes twice a day, and soaked up as much as I could from staying there. This was after they became a retreat venue instead of a yoga ashram, but many of the devoted residents still lived there in community. In those years, Kripalu emphasized a soft style of asana, with lots of meditation and pranayama. I remember sitting in an early morning practice, in front of a picture of Swami Kripalu, my eyes burning from trataka meditation.
When I returned from Kripalu, I was hired at Dover Yoga and later managed the studio for a time. This gave me a peek into the business of yoga, and I got acquainted with all the moving parts. I taught a bunch of classes weekly, and worked part-time jobs in bakeries and on farms. I wanted desperately to be able to leave my smattering of part-time jobs, to become a full-time yoga teacher. I started teaching at Yoga on York (owned by RaeLynn Stackpoole and Jeff Peltz) and Bending Oak Yoga (owned by Jane Bartolomei). My twenties were spent driving from studio to studio, teaching and taking classes, schlepping bolsters around for restorative workshops.
For a couple of years, I sublet studio space at a venue called The Space in Kittery, Maine (it’s currently Buoy art gallery). These classes were the foundation of the studio that I had for 14 years in Kittery (Yoga on the Hill), and I’m fortunate to still have a handful of these students today. In 2008, I opened my small studio and kept it plodding along from ages 29 to 43. It was truly my yoga home, and the home for a community of devoted students. While it had big ups and some way-downs, it was always a place to be myself. I struggled in other studios as a non-vinyasa teacher, disliked the popularity contest that got you the best times on the schedule, and I always suspected that if I were on my own, I could earn more. Mostly, I wanted to leave flow-centric studios, use a mountain of props and seek out the students who craved the details and depth of asana.
I taught a gazillion classes, workshops and ran several teacher trainings. I offered therapeutic classes, chair-adapted classes, and fun challenges on the rope wall. I assisted many a fearful yogi into an inversion by the grace of blocks, the wall and sometimes that headstander prop. I kept a whiteboard on the wall with a menu du jour of the props we’d use in that class. Two bolsters were a regular thing.
Though Iyengar yoga informed most of my yoga education, there came a time when the rules and regs began to feel arbitrary. Rich, intriguing and true-to-the-source, but…arbitrary. I recall a senior teacher being asked why the stance was one length for warrior 1, and another length for warrior 2. Her answer was: because Guruji said so. I felt like this was common in the system, a deflection of critical thinking towards the some antiquated standard of how the body should move. I was encouraged several times to start an apprenticeship so I could certify in the system. It never felt right, I reject that tight hierarchy, and I had listened too many times to great teachers say totally inaccurate things about human physiology. So while I never jumped in headlong to certifying, I am deeply reverential to the amazing education I got from Iyengar teachers, and for the connection I’ve made to Kofi Busia.
I met Kofi at a weeklong retreat, in a moment of burn-out and restlessness in teaching. I felt adrift, pushed around by a phase of growth that included rejecting earlier ideas and finding my way towards teaching without lineage. While Kofi stayed in the Iyengar system for over 40 years, he managed to be utterly himself, and taught from within: a Ghanian, a Brit, an immigrant, a husband and father, a philosopher, a scientist, a genius. No one teaches like Kofi, and he is impossible to emulate. But through him, I reignited my passion for teaching and learning, and settled into a self-trust that has only ever made me a stronger teacher. A silver lining of the pandemic is that I can now practice with him regularly online.
As a teacher and student, I also owe a debt of gratitude to Barbara Benagh. My first classes with her were a revelation: slow, deep, detailed. I took a three hour workshop, and reveled in pain-free hips and a comfortable urdvha dhanurasana. Every trip to Boston was worth it to spend time with an original teacher who role models a graceful steadiness of self, and a unique approach to teaching. If you’ve ever taken my class and appreciated the space I give for integration and interpretation, it’s because of Barbara’s influence. With her, I learned that the felt-sense of the pose is more intriguing that the instructions that define it.
When I closed my studio in 2021, it was actually a decent financial year, but showing up to a room with just 1 or 2 students became demoralizing. I couldn’t see past the moment: masks were still on, but social distancing was over. Where was everyone, and why was I still paying all that overhead? People were content to practice with me livestream, and I had some success with online courses. It seemed like a good moment to thank everyone for their years of support and turn the page in my career.
Having my small studio made me the teacher that I am. I adored the limitless creativity, and rising/falling on my own efforts. I loved the long-term relationships my studio fostered, and I’m chuffed at the level of studentship we created. Many times over, a colleague would drop in to a class, impressed by how embodied and integrated my students were (often qualified by how they were “not young”). I held fast to a session-based schedule (see you every Thursday at 6pm for 12 weeks!), and even though it’s totally a mismatch for a drop-in based world, your down dog pose was chef’s kiss.
After closing my studio, I moved to Portland, absolutely clueless about how to write my next chapter. I’ve taught online since 2020, and have been there for every peak and valley of livestream yoga since, rejoicing when folks are more interested, frustrated when interest wanes. I figure that online teaching will be a part of my work from here on out, and it’s sometimes lonely, but there’s been enough connection and satisfaction to continue.
I’ve been fortunate to be part of a couple of local studios. The folks at Greener Postures Yoga (surely because Danielle always cheers me on) kindly let me return to in-person teaching on their schedule, and I am thankful for getting my toes back in the water with their support. I was part of Portland Yoga Project for several years: a big, busy place, so different than what I created, in many great ways. These days, I teach regularly at Una Yoga, opened by Devon Harris, another yogi who wants to create a studio for progression and depth for those who commit to the practice.
My own practice happens mostly solo. I look back and know that I moved through low back pain, SI joint inflammation, deep mental despair, nerve pain and perimenopause by the devotion to all aspects of my practice: asana, pranayama, and actively engaging with philosophy. My backbends are limited by my stiff thoracic, my inversions are best with a wall for support, and forgiving hip sockets have always made my standing poses expansive. My years as a flower farmer were made possible by attending to my body through asana, a mid-life divorce required me to thread soft breaths to stay steady.
Along these years of practice and of teaching, a life has been lived: single, married. Healthy, unwell (mostly healthy). Home-owner, apartment-dweller, flower farmer, middle-aged city lady. Burnt-out, tired of superficiality and the obsession with asana. Content, inspired, delighting in the potential of the practice. Buoyant and clear on my mat, lethargic and dull on my mat. And all of the points in between.
The relationship between me and my practice is secure yet ineffable. Is yoga a resource, or a companion? Is my practice a refuge, or a confinement? Do I cling to an identity, or do I live with a discipline? However I may abide with these questions, as the years progress, I know that the answers come from a devotion to practicing yoga.
I’m in awe of how quickly the years have gone by, and grateful to each student who has made it possible for me to make my way as a yoga teacher.
Cheers to 25 years of teaching!
Erin
October, 2026