I will be running a yoga teacher training programme at my dear friend Marion’s lovely yoga studio in Cap d’Ail in South of France in July this year, and Marion had asked me to send her some up-to-date, high-resolution, nice photographs of myself to promote the course.

 

But here’s the problem: I have a bad injury from a kayaking accident that has gone from bad to worse: I have a fractured ankle and split tendons. In fact, the morning these photos were taken, I was in hospital with the orthopaedic surgeon discussing the next step.

 

So the elusive “perfect” posture did not appear to be possible on this Saturday afternoon, though the weather was sunny and just right.

But who am I trying to kid? I am 50 years old and I have given birth to 5 children, ranging from 32 to 18 years old. I am not a girl gymnast anymore. I love food and I have an active, indulgent lifestyle, which means my poor body has deep-set injuries and on many occasions, carried extra pounds.

Here’s a clip from 8 years ago about my injury (ankle again!):

I have lived fully and joyously, no regrets, and as a consequence, perfection has slipped my body’s vocabulary a long time ago. Instead, I have found deep beauty in small things. No doubt if my ever-so-patient friend Jane and I had spent longer than 2 minutes in the garden, we would have gotten more stunning photos from the session. Some perfect ones even, albeit accidentally 🙂

But is a perfectly posed, perfect posture what I’m trying to sell? Am I trying to say, “Come and learn how to look good doing an asana?”

No.

Over a three-week period in Cap d’Ail, this is what you will be doing:

1. Learn all about your body, the mechanics, the connections and how they all fit together to create a stunning engineering wonder;
2. Honouring your body, enjoying the movements that are inherent and personal to you – yoga is a deeply personal relationship between you and your body;
3. Cultivating gratitude for your body and finding beauty within its imperfections;
4. Finding peace in Cap d’Ail.

Once you have found that deep passion for your physical being and reestablish your connection with nature, you will radiate. And this is when you become a teacher and pass on the light.

Be the light ~ SUN YOGA.

Come and join us in Cap d’Ail  on 6-29 July 2018.

For more information please email: wellness@elanda-villa.com

 

I was telling my daughter that teachers have the power to shape lives and create destinies….for the better and also for the worse, depending on the teacher.

As I was telling her this, I thought about my chemistry teacher. I googled him, and much to my sadness, I found that there is nothing written about him at all, just announcements of his funeral.  He was such a great but humble man, so I decided to write this, for the world to remember him by.

******

Mr Clifford Haskins taught me chemistry. He studied chemistry at Oxford and returned to our lovely county (Hampshire) to teach in the local school.

I was lazy and rebellious. I had come to the school with three meagre O levels. I was also a teenage unwed mum. You couldn’t get a worst combination in a student than what I was.

“You could go up to Oxford you know,” he told to me seriously. “You just need to work a little harder.”

Well, that’s NOT what people have been telling me.

He didn’t get too annoyed when I messed around in his class and didn’t do my homework. “I was in Milan,” I would tell him airily.

“Oh my goodness me, did you have a good time?” He would reply, totally unflustered. I get the feeling he laughed at us behind our backs, or when his back was turned to us.

Towards exam time, he would get a little flustered. “Just listen to me for fifteen minutes, please!” He would beg the class, appealing to our goodwill.  But those 15-minute segments were very effective. He must have stayed up for hours in his cottage on Langstone preparing for the 15 minutes.

We listened to him for 15 minutes as part of the deal, and then spent the rest of the lesson gossiping and messing around with chemicals. But somehow, because of his excellent teaching (hard work behind the scenes, I suspect), we learned more than we thought.

“You could go up to Oxford you know,” he kept on telling me that.

When university application time came, the girl with three O levels (instead of ten) decided to try for Oxford. “Which college?” I asked Mr Haskins. “St John’s?”

“Oh my goodness me, you have to be either very rich or very clever to get into that one,” he joked, pale blue eyes twinkling. “But why not? You just have to work a little harder.”

So my dear Mr Haskins, I wish to tell you this: I got there in the end, because you told me I could. Thank you, Sir, with all my heart.

Cover photo: St John’s College, Oxford University, my alma mater (wikipedia).