Mysore. Breathing. Room.

Before the room fully wakes,

there is breath

soft, unseen,

like a tide remembering the moon.

One by one, they arrive

not to perform,

but to return.

Mats unrolled like quiet prayers,

feet grounding into something older than thought,

older than effort,

older than time.

In this room, no one leads you

yet everything guides you.

The rhythm is yours,

inhale, move

exhale, move

again, again, time after time

a conversation between body and truth.

The teacher walks gently,

not to command,

but to witness,

to place her hands where forgetting lingers,

to remind the spine of its light.

Here, progress is invisible.

It hides in the pause before resistance,

in the moment you choose breath over force,

in the surrender no one applauds.

Sweat becomes offering,

discipline becomes devotion,

and repetition is a doorway.

No mirrors,

only awareness.

No comparison,

only practice.

And somewhere between effort and surrender,

the practice begins to practice you.

the practice and the practitioner become one..