Life can feel out of balance when routines are interrupted, schedules delayed, plans postponed.

One moment all the parts of your life can exist in perfect harmony.

Yet the very next moment those very same parts can fly apart and spin completely out of control.

Sometimes you don’t even notice the balance in your life until it’s gone.

This week my life has felt especially out of balance because my wife had surgery on Monday. (Thankfully she’s home resting now.)

Sitting in the hospital, waiting for the doctor to appear and tell me that my wife would be fine, I had to remind myself to breathe calmly.

And later that same day, driving home, I had to concentrate on the road rather than on my worries about my wife’s health.

Life felt then as if it was rushing too fast, moving at a pace that I couldn’t keep up with.

Only later that day–when I stepped onto my mat after making sure my wife was resting comfortably in bed–did I realize just how much I felt out of balance.

But the moment I stepped onto the mat, the world seemed to stop spinning.

Life slowed down with each breath.

I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the wind and felt the beating of my heart and, as I lifted myself into down dog, I felt as if I’d re-established the balance in my life.

What is it, I wonder, about standing on our mats and listening to our breath that helps us find our balance again?

Journal Practice: Has your life ever felt out of balance? Describe a situation in which your life was out of control, yet you were able to regain your balance. What happened? And how did your practice of yoga help you find your balance?

I’ve noticed a change in the way that I approach poses–especially difficult poses–since I first stepped on the mat.

At first, I would watch in awe as our teacher demonstrated a pose–the eagle, say, or the dancer–and couldn’t imagine myself stepping into the pose at all.

If it was a pose that required balance, I doubted that I’d ever find the balance to hold the stance for more than a moment.

And if the pose demanded a certain level of flexibility–a deep twist, say–I would laugh to myself, convinced that I would never acquire the kind of flexibility needed to do such a twist.

But slowly my approach to the poses began to change.

I started where I was… and began exploring the pose… without expecting perfection.

Each session on the mat taught me to accept what my body could do.

And in the process of coming to such acceptance, I began to understand that my body had changed since first stepping onto the mat.

I had grown into certain poses that I thought I’d never be able to do only because I’d given up my assumptions of what a pose should look like or how I should feel in any given pose.

I had to accept the demands of the pose… and how my body might (or might not) respond to those demands.

Now, stepping into poses such as the eagle or the dancer, or twisting while balancing on one leg into the half-moon, I no longer doubt myself or what my body can do.

I’ve stopped looking for perfection in each pose.

Instead, I’ve learned to accept where I am–wherever that may be on a given day–and to work within the limits of that day.

I try to let the pose unfold, even if that means falling out of the pose, or never quite managing to step fully into it.

Through my weekly practice, I try to accept things as they are.

It’s not always easy.

But on those days when acceptance comes–when I can truly accept life as it is–I find a small measure of comfort and peace.

Journal Practice: Do you have trouble accepting things as they are? Or do you accept things as they are too easily? Write about your feelings of acceptance in your journal–how you define it, what acceptance might mean to your yoga practice, and, more importantly, what it might mean to your life off the mat.

Our lives are so busy, so rushed. Sometimes it’s hard to find a moment to sit still.

It’s one of the reasons that I love yoga. The moment I unroll my mat and sit down, the strains of my day seem to melt away. (Writing in my journal provides the same sanctuary from the daily rush of life.)

But sometimes just sitting isn’t easy.

Even though I’ve set my foundation and closed my eyes, my thoughts may keep racing, speeding ahead to what I have planned for the rest of the day, or back-tracking to what I might have done differently yesterday or the day before.

On those days it’s often hard to still my thoughts, to let my mind slow down and sink into the present moment.

In my journaling, I find it helps to start by noticing the world around me–the clouds racing above me, the birds screeching in the woods, the steady hum of an air conditioner next door.

From the outside world I start to move inward, noting if my breath is relaxed or rushed, if my posture is tense or at ease, if I find my thoughts returning to the same image, the same worry, the same thought.

Just sitting helps still the mind if you give your mind a chance to settle.

For that to happen, you have to give yourself permission to let go of the business of the world. You have to want to immerse yourself in the stillness of the present moment.

My favorite sitting position is Sukasana. I sit down on the mat, cross my legs, lift my spine, and let my hands rest lightly on my knees. But there are many other sitting poses that I hope to explore.

Whatever seated pose you prefer, I hope it helps you reach that stillness within.

Journal practice: Do you find it hard or easy to sit for more than a minute or two? What pulls you out of the moment? What draws you in? Experiment with different sitting positions. (You can check out http://www.thesecretsofyoga.com/basic-sitting-poses.html to explore a variety of seated poses.) Then open your journal and describe how you felt in each pose, comparing one to another.

Let’s face it. I’m not a big fan of bare feet. (Not mine, anyway.)

Until I stepped onto the mat, I didn’t pay much attention to them.

If you want to know the truth, I found my feet embarrassing.

They were too small.

Too pale.

Too smelly.

The nails on both big toes were discolored.

And the little toes on each foot hung off to the side like little rolls of unused dough that I could barely move.

To cover my embarrassment, I wore socks, even in Florida, where most people delight in showing off their feet in attractive sandals or take long walks in bare feet on the beach.

Not me.

I hid my feet in sneakers (which, admittedly, only made them more smelly).

But then I stepped onto the mat.

I wore socks at first.

But, little by little, I grew comfortable with the bare feet on the mats around me.

And before long I removed my socks, left them in the front room with everyone else’s shoes and sandals, and walked onto the mat in bare feet.

Bare feet! (And nobody even noticed!)

It felt like walking on the beach.

Or in a field of grass.

I could feel the earth beneath my toes!

One night our teacher started the class by asking us to massage our feet.

We worked our fingers into the soles, rubbing the heels, squeezing the toes. I held my feet in my hands and felt more relaxed than I’d felt in years, as if all the tension that I’d held in my body over the years had found a way to escape through the bottom of my feet.

Funny, isn’t it? How our aversion to some aspect of ourselves can keep us from fully experiencing ourselves?

Now one of my most favorite poses is Happy Baby. I delight in rocking from side to side on my back, my legs in the air, my feet clasped in my hands.

My bare feet!

And such delight is possible only because I was willing to confront my own embarrassment, remove my socks, and go barefoot.

Journal Practice: Is there a part of yourself–your hair, for instance, or your eyes or your knees–that you find embarrassing? Can you explain why? And can you explore ways that you might accept yourself as you are?

Rita Knorr teaches Hatha Yoga in classes on Florida’s West Coast–in St. Petersburg, Tampa Bay, and Sarasota–as well as on the shores of Lake Michigan in Chicago.

She has studied with John Friend, the founder of Anusara Yoga, Swami Chidvilasananda (Gurumayi), Barbara Benaugh, John Schumacher, and James Flaherty.

“I like James’ philosophy of life because it works from the assumption that there is nothing to ‘fix’ about our lives,” says Rita. “We are perfect just the way we are, just as the yogic scriptures imply.”

She began keeping a yoga journal years ago and was kind enough to share her thoughts about her journals with us.

JP: When did you start practicing yoga and what inspired you to begin?

Rita: I started in 1975 on the beach in Negril, Jamaica. To use an expression that was popular at the time, it was a way to “be mellow.”

JP: Do you use a journal? If so, when did you begin using the journal and what prompted you to try journaling?

Rita: Yes, I use a journal. I read Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way, and discovered that I could work through lots of emotions and daily problems just by writing it all down. The yoga journal was a natural continuation of that work.

JP: How do you use your journal with your yoga practice? That is, how long do you journal each day? Do you keep more than one journal at a time? Do you journal on the mat or off, between poses, before or after poses?

Rita: I am very erratic with my journals. I have many, and each journal relates to a different aspect of my life, and, at any given time, I am working on lots of project ideas, behavior aspects, and things that inspire me.

When I first started journaling, I journaled with a cup of coffee every morning and wrote three pages following Julia Cameron’s advice. Right now the only time that I am consistently writing is just before I go to bed. That’s when I try to identify the “golden nuggets”– that is, the most life-changing or life-affirming things that happened to me that day. Right now, I rarely have a journal by my mat as I practice.

JP: Can you provide an example (or examples) from your journal that show the kind of things you write about in your journal?

Rita: Here’s an example from yesterday’s journal. I was exploring the idea of the guru–why I have one–and the different gurus (albeit not called that) who have walked into my life. It was my Guru’s birthday, so I was especially thinking of the teacher/student relationship and discipleship.

JP: How has keeping a journal helped deepen your understanding of your yoga practice?

Rita: I think that yoga for me right now is about going deeper into very subtle stuff, like getting to know the body. When I begin to see the subtle changes in breathwork, in postures, in how I work with poses, my mind opens wide. It is the longing for that spaciousness in my mind that deepens my understanding of the process of yoga.

JP: What advice can you share as a result of your own journaling experience that may help other yogis begin their journals?

Rita: Don’t edit. Don’t be profound. Do write down whatever happens in your thoughts, no matter how whacked-out the thoughts. Nobody places judgment on what you write.

For more information about Rita Knorr and a schedule of her classes, visit her website: http://www.fulcrumblu.com/index.htm

I need to practice patience on the mat.

In yesterday morning’s class, our teacher pointed out a slight adjustment for us to make when we kicked up into our handstands.

To prepare us for the pose, he asked us to do the “division of labor” at our mats (rather than at the wall), demonstrating how our kicking leg should remain straight (just as the leg that we lifted over our heads should be extended).

Then we moved to the wall, and he showed us how to inner-spiral our kicking leg so that our hips as we kicked into the handstand would remain level.

If we puffed up our back, he added, we might be able to add lightness to our kick and avoid arching our lower spine.

But it was one thing to hear him describe and demonstrate these minor adjustments. It was quite another to implement them in my own pose.

After a few kicks, I found myself growing impatient with myself… comparing the height of my kicks to the kicks of other students in the class… wondering why I couldn’t go upside down as easily, as lightly, or with as much grace as some of the others.

I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn’t trying to copy anyone else’s pose. I was only trying to do my own.

So, I started again, knelt on all fours, pushed up into down-dog, and stepped in toward the wall with my left leg to kick up into a handstand.

I concentrated on keeping my hips level, my legs straight, and inhaled as I lifted my leg over my head.

Each time I kicked up, I was able to hold the pose a micro-second longer.

Only when I stopped comparing myself to the other students could I focus on the elements of my own pose–melting my shoulders, tucking my tailbone, kicking with straight legs, breathing.

Before we finished the pose, I managed to kick into the handstand without touching the wall and hold it for a few breaths.

I’d tried for months to find that place, upside-down, where I could balance without relying on the wall. And, suddenly, I’d found it.

Impatience had only clouded my vision; patience helped clear it.

That’s something I need to remember the next time I start to feel impatient with myself.

Journal Practice: What about you? Do you ever find yourself feeling impatient? Not just on your mat but during the day… at work, say, or standing on line at the grocery store? Can you describe what triggers the impatience? And then can you write about how you overcame your impatience? What did you discover in the process?

Each time you step onto the mat or open your journal, you must take a risk.

You can’t know what’s going to happen before you begin.

On some days you might feel like you’re leaping off a cliff into thin air.

And you have to summon the courage to face the unknown, the mystery waiting for you just beyond the edge of your mat, just beyond your page, and plunge in

But where do you find the courage to leap into the unknown?

How do you learn to trust that something will appear on the page, that the poses will flow once you step onto your mat? (And what keeps you from taking risks? Is it fear? Or lack of confidence? Or something else?)

If you want to grow and expand your knowledge of yourself and the world, you need to learn how to take risks and move into places where you’ve never been before.

How can your journal help you do this?

Journal practice: How do you define a risk? Can you write about a risk that you took–or refused to take–recently? Why did you consider it a risk, and what allowed you to take the risk? Or, if you didn’t take the risk, what held you back?

There are days when stepping onto an empty mat or facing an empty page can be daunting.

No matter how many times I tell myself that emptiness is part of the process, I find myself frightened to begin, anxious about what direction to take, dreading the notion that I won’t find anything on the page or on the mat .

It’s as if the empty mat– and the empty page–are mirrors that reflect my deepest insecurities.

Before I begin, the emptiness seems so vast, and my thoughts and actions seem so small, so insignificant, that they hardly seem worth pursuing.

Where should I begin? With cat and dog tilts? Mountain pose? Forward bends?

And what should I write? Can I describe the discomfort? The emptiness? The insignificance of these actions?

Amazingly, though, once I step on the mat or open my journal, these fears evaporate… and the emptiness disappears, too, no longer a vast vacuum waiting to swallow me up.

Instead, I find myself excited by the prospect of discovering something new in a place that I’ve never been before.

The mat becomes a space for exploration.

The page –like an unmarked stretch of sand– becomes a place to play, an opportunity to experiment with different ways of looking at the world.

What accounts for this shift in perspective? How do you move from fear to joy? What allows you to embrace fear and move through it to curiosity and exploration?

These encounters with emptiness–on the mat, on the page–are inevitable, I’m afraid.

But our response to emptiness is not inevitable.

We can choose how we respond to it.

We can see its vastness as frightening, something to shy away from.

Or we can see it as uncharted territory that we have yet to explore, an empty bowl that we can fill with bits and pieces of ourselves.

Journal Practice: Think about emptiness: the empty mat, the empty page. How does it feel to step onto an empty mat or put words on an empty page? Is it frightening or joyful? Can you explain why? And can you use your journal to shift your perspective so that you can see emptiness in a new way?