The practice belongs to you

There is another kind of space I want JingXi to leave open — the practice isn't about the teacher. A teacher can offer a movement, a breath, a possibility or a question. But the experience belongs to the person practising.

You might notice ease where somebody else notices effort, or you might want movement when somebody else wants stillness. Even your own experience of the same practice may be different tomorrow. There isn't a correct experience to reproduce, which is why you will often hear invitations in JingXi classes to allow, notice and explore, rather than instructions about what you ought to feel — participation rather than perfection.

The teacher can guide the practice but cannot own your experience of it

In a JingXi class, I invite students to feel able to pause, change a shape, take another breath, use a chair, come out earlier, or simply notice that today is different. These are not mere “modifications” handed down because somebody can't do the pose; instead, they belong to the JingXi philosophy of participation rather than perfection.

An asana isn’t a performance; it’s more like a conversation, with space to breathe, notice and respond. When I write that there is nothing to achieve, this means there is no need to compare yourself with others.

There is no perfect pose.

There is no perfect student.

There is only this moment.

Perhaps that is part of the Practice of Noticing: not learning to reproduce somebody else's practice but becoming a little more familiar with your own.

Every person who comes to a class brings the flow of their own life with them. Some arrive feeling light, some arrive carrying stress, uncertainty or tiredness, some know exactly how they feel and others haven't had time to notice.

For a little while, we step onto the mat or sit in the chair together. We move, breathe and pause — not to become someone different, but to become more aware of who we are in this moment. We may notice ease or resistance. Sometimes gratitude appears and sometimes frustration does. Neither is a mistake, both belong. For me, yoga doesn't ask us to reject one experience in favour of another; it simply invites us to observe them with honesty and kindness.

When the class ends, life continues. The breath continues and the awareness you've found doesn't stay in the room. It goes with you — it's always there, quietly waiting, whenever you choose to return to it.

While the teacher can offer the invitation, the practice belongs to you. That’s why every class ends with "Thank yourself for making time to notice your breath and flow."

The calm you discovered was never something I gave you — it was something you allowed yourself to find.