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On the subject of my practice, I prefer the dark. A candlelit room with matte black partitions and no mirrors is my ideal space. That is what I encounter every time I practice at my regular studio. It forces me to tune out the remainder of the world. (I can’t take a look at anyone else’s practice because, well, I can barely see them.) That dark room has at all times allowed me to tap in and tune out. I leave feeling refreshed, rejuvenated and, frankly, alive.

Nevertheless, recently I struggled to search out that familiar solace. By my very own admission, I used to be in a yoga rut. I had ignored it for a bit, considering it might correct itself. After taking a number of weeks off, I had eagerly returned to the mat, able to have the calmness immediately wash over me. Nevertheless it didn’t. I kept trying, however the yoga just wasn’t landing.

There’s a saying in relation to running about “every third run.” Out of three jogs, one will probably be terrible, one will probably be mediocre, and one will probably be absolutely incredible. That last one is the rationale why you proceed to do it. You’re ceaselessly chasing that “third run.” I attempted to take into consideration my practice in an identical light. Not every class may very well be life-changing. I knew that. But that “third practice” never arrived.

So once I was invited to a rooftop yoga class on the Rockaway Hotel as a part of “Wellness Week,” I assumed there was no way I’d find my “third practice.” There can be no dark, heated room. I wouldn’t be dripping in sweat. I wouldn’t have my normal spot under the ceiling fan.

Nevertheless, there was also no way I used to be turning down a chance to practice 800 feet away from the ocean in such an idyllic setting. I showed as much as the category with no expectations. And perhaps that’s exactly what I needed to do. After I arrived, flustered and late (thanks, MTA), I took a spot within the back row, an area I typically avoid. I didn’t have my normal mat or towel. I had picked the fallacious sports bra, and it was digging into my shoulder. Everyone could see me. But then, I looked up. The teacher happened to be Chris Stanley, one in all my favorites. As we moved through the sequence, I took more variations than I normally would. I hung out looking up on the fluffy clouds. I lost myself in the sensation of the ocean breeze, the peace and quiet of the rooftop. After which, as I wobbled in Tree Pose, I discovered it: my third practice.

It sounds so trivial to say when I ended searching for it, it got here. Yet it rings true. Stepping outside of the everyday confines of what I believed I needed gave me that “yoga high” I’m consistently chasing. This summer, I’m continuing that. I really like my home studio, but I’m also attempting to open myself up more—trying a latest variety of class, teacher, location, time. You simply never know whenever you’ll come upon that “third practice.”

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