Ten years ago I was living in New York as a dance student, slowly consuming my savings, thinking the city might as well make or break me. Life meant survival in the concrete jungle with subway monsters and strange hormonal shifts. That year yoga went from something I was dabbling in to something that anchored me in my every day hustling and bustling. Ever since that time, yoga has been an irreplaceable constituent of my daily life. Now, that might sound nice, but actually for the last ten years, I have been obsessing about my practice more than I like to admit. The first phase, I thought it was imperative to get in a 90 minute Asana practice every day. The second phase, I added doing a 45 minute Pranayama practice every morning to the mix of expectations. And I actually did that religiously for over three years. Then, third phase, I had moved to Taiwan and had a lot of time on my hands, so my inner critic decreed I should do 30 minutes of seated meditation every morning. Which I did.

It only just occurred to me yesterday, that I have now spent the last ten years obsessing about how much was only just good enough and guilt-tripping when I didn't meet my lofty goals. Over the last two years of motherhood, this was more often than not. Yesterday, for the first time, I had to ask myself: Why? Why would I torture myself with all these expectations wrapped in a thick layer of guilt? And for ten years! Why? It suddenly dawned on me that this feeling of constraint is blocking my practice more than it is evolving it. I don't know how it is for you, but I don't like to be forced. Least of all by myself.

I was recently introduced to the concept of the lizard brain. This is the primitive oldest part of our brain responsible for survival instincts, such as fight, flight, fear, freezing in the face of danger and fornication. When we are reluctant to do something, it is usually because our lizard brain has smelled danger or disruption of a peaceful state. This part of the brain doesn't distinguish between the danger of running from a lion in the wild or the “danger” of getting yourself to move your tired body for a full 90 minutes, when it would be much more comfortable to lounge on the sofa. Both seem like threats to the lizard brain. And because it is well connected to its buddy, the logical thinking, excuse-making brain, we come up with all kinds of reasons why we should put it off and procrastinate: There's not enough time anyway, we have a cold or we are recovering from one, we had too much for lunch, we had too little and should get a snack first, we should return this call or reply to that email, we need to hit the snooze button one more time because we have been sleeping poorly lately... Right. We've all been there.

It's a cat biting its tail. The more we try to force ourselves to do it – practice, eat better, sleep more, spend less time staring at the screen – the more the lizard brain will sense the danger of moving outside the comfort zone and it will freeze, fight or flee.

So what to do? During a Yoga for Writers course online I was asked to do a specific yoga sequence every day, then sit down to write for a limited amount of time. The yoga sequence was only twenty minutes long, which I usually consider too short a practice. Still, I decided to give this a try. We all know what happened. Yes, I stuck to it. Because it was a manageable amount of time, feasible and not too menacing. It didn't require that I badger myself into doing it. The more I did it, the more I enjoyed it, because it was not too much, yet just enough. Even now that the course has ended, I keep sticking to the twenty minutes. I even usually end up practicing longer, but I can always start out by telling myself: Only 20 minutes, that's all you have to do. No biggie. I find that I haven't taken so much pleasure (yes, pleasure!) in my self-practice for a long time. It is just a little moment of tuning in and being present with my own breath and body. I put a little bit of distance between myself and the every day hassle. And I no longer feel like I'm standing next to myself with a horsewhip.

I remember someone once told me that the Inuit eat many little portions of food every day because it helps them stay warm. This is what this new approach reminds me of: one little portion every day to keep you going, adding up to many over the course of a week or a month. I've even started to call it my Eskimo strategy.
Many little portions eventually make up a plentiful nourishing meal. They are not to be sneered at for being small. Small is smart. It is not too much in one go, it is much more digestible and easier to metabolise that way. You never go hungry, but you are also never too sluggish from overeating.

It is simple, yet revolutionary.

A sunny Sunday afternoon in February. My mother has offered to take pixie for a couple of hours, so my husband and I go for a walk just the two of us - a rare treat. We walk along the river, until we reach the area below the cathedral, where we take an unusual turn and I find myself on a corner I have never seen. I've been living in this town on and off for the last 35 years. I always feel that I know it like my own closet. But apparently I can still come across places that I have never taken in before. We keep on walking and my husband shows me the little back alley that he says looks like one in Italy. He has pointed it out to me before, but I want to look again, see the world through his eyes.

Just before we left for our walk, a good friend wrote to me that she was in the process of breaking up with her partner. We are quite sensitive beings, my husband and I. Whenever news like these reach us, we are painfully aware that this could be us any day, even though the shadow of a crisis has never touched us. So as we walk together, we ruminate about the question of what keeps people together, or drives them apart, even after decades.

It is not easy being the busy working parents of a very lively (and occasionally very stubborn) two-year old. Sometimes we just function and do our chores alongside each other. Compared to the BB (before baby) era , we have little time to really connect, to sit down and talk without a time frame. So far, we have been fine. But we are also aware that not touching base with each other for an extended period of time equals thin ice for a relationship in the long run.

At the beginning of every relationship, every corner is shiny and new. We want to drink the other person in, spend every moment together and share every thought that crosses our mind. We want to get the lay of the land. All our senses are a 150% tuned in. We are so present and we don't want to miss a thing.

Then after a while, baby or not, we feel like we have gotten our bearings and stop paying so much attention. Routine kicks in, we always pick the same streets and side roads and get comfortable with not having to worry about the unexpected. Just like our nose gets used to strong perfume, nothing can stay too intense for ever. Maybe we need that uneventful familiarity or it would be constant overwhelm. But still, we tend to get nostalgic about that initial honeymoon phase. As if we wanted it back or wanted it to last longer. In past relationships I would even label the onset of the daily rut as the time when the relationship had started going downhill.

This relationship, however, has been very different. I attribute that to the fact that I see it just as another practice, the best yoga I have ever done. An invitation to observe and reflect. Was I really going to bolt every time something lost its initial thrill? A meditation teacher once said to me: "To the awakened mind, nothing is repetitive." If you train your senses to stay open and curious, then you notice every little shift. Since nothing in life ever stands still, there is always something to observe. It never gets boring. And if it does, well, you could explore boredom.

So you can live in the same place all your life and still find little things to marvel at. Yes, awareness does take a little more discipline. You need to make the time and the space, you need to listen and observe, you need to go on that Sunday walk. Then you will see things as if for the first time. It is a simple discipline though, kind of like brushing your teeth. If you get into the habit of doing it, then you start missing it when you have to skip it.

After the walk, after dinner, after the little one has gone to bed, we sit in the kitchen and listen to our favorite song by Lorenzo Jovanotti and get teary when I translate the meaning of the Italian lyrics. We've heard it a million times and still we hit repeat. This is what happens when you stay awake and present. You can listen to the same song over and over and it never gets boring. You only go deeper.

Tonight I found myself sitting on the floor with my two-year old boy, building a tower made of Duplos (if you must know, Duplos are like Legos but smaller, i.e. harder to swallow). Now, you may think that this is my usual past-time on Friday nights, but no, I usually let my husband do the honors, because I don't have the time or the patience and I'd rather do the dishes and make sure everything is tidy. But tonight, after my first week of taking the online seminar Yoga for Writers, my readyness to observe how we all express ourselves has increased significantly. And so I watched this incredibly lively little boy, who is not known for his ability to sit still, become very focused and engaged. He seemed to enter a special zone, and I believe it was because with those colorful little bricks, he was finding a way to express himself.

In all these years I had never thought about it like this, but after a week of discussing writing attempts and ambitions with fellow writers online, I have had one major insight: Self-expression is a very fundamental human need. Whether we are amateurs, professionals or somewhere in between, most of us have a passion that has become their vehicle for self-expression – be it painting, playing an instrument, singing, sewing, dancing or, well, writing. Just like my son, when you find your voice, or your vehicle, you enter that special world, you get tunnel vision and become fully present. Everything that was troubling you, suddenly slinks further and further away. Not surprisingly, these are the words I often use to describe the effects of a yoga practice.

Could it be that this need to express ourselves is also what keeps bringing us back to our yoga mat? As we practice Asana, our body becomes a vehicle for self-expression, similar to dance. We express ourselves by putting the body into different shapes. Drawing cobras, warriors and triangles in thin air. It's true that the poses are set and look like they don't leave much room for interpretation. However, this couldn't be further from the truth. The poses look and feel different on everybody and every body. And who says you are not allowed to play with the poses or transitions in between? Who says you are not to explore and discover which little tweaks and creative variations work best for you? Every pose is a unique expression. Every pose is different from day to day and evolves tremendously over the years, as we get more accustomed to this practice or take breaks from it for a while.

As I was teaching today, it suddenly occurred to me, that the beauty of self-expression even goas as far as our breath. On a micro-level, we are constantly ex-pressing, and I mean this in the literal sense. If you consider the latin root of expressing, pushing out, then you realize this is exactly what we do when we exhale - pushing air out of the lungs, sending back out what we originally took in by inspiration (pun intended): The breath is a metaphor for every creative process: First we take in what enlivens us and gets our brain working (like oxygen, for example) and then send out a new version that has gone through our system and came back digested and slightly altered (like carbondioxide, for instance). Making sounds, be it talking or singing, happens on the exhale. Whatever we communicate to the outside world is inextricably linked to our exhale.

Yoga links breath to body movement, one way of self-expression to another. It occurs to me that eventually, yoga creates a container for all emotions that arise. Whether positive, neutral or negative, at some point emotions will well up. Being in a yoga pose when that happens, represents an alternative to simply reacting to our emotions. As we stay present in the body and with the breath, we are able to fully inhabit what we feel in our body. We are not denying our emotions, but we are also not acting on them. We simply make space to experience them, we literally em-body them. Within the container, we can express what we feel and admit to our emotions, without causing harm or disturbance to others.

I suddenly see a new reason why many yoga teachers like working with intentions. I always considered it a valuable technique for positive thinking, for planting a seed and slightly shifting the conditioning of the mind. But it is a brilliant stratagem: As we plant an intention (e.g. “I will lift my sternum and expand my chest”) on the physical plain, we pair it with a second intention on a mental level. On the gross level, we can immediately witness the outward manifestation of intention. Could it be that this alchemy, the power of externalizing intentions speedily when it comes to the gross body, rubs off on the mind, so that the manifesting of our intentions out in the world would be considerably accelarated? I like to think that it is so. And just imagine, the things we could do, if we silently voiced our intention while exhaling or silently saying a mantra on the exhale!

This, right there, is the miracle of life. Creativity and self-expression. A basic human need, not just for those who have been called professionals, but for everyone who has been kissed by the muse.

After a week of mutual exchange with my fellow yogi-writers it's painful to see how we all measure our own merit by gauging the results of our practice: Could it be that this is exactly when the beauty of self-expression starts eluding us? As soon as it becomes about results, we start missing out on the process. While it is rewarding to see our work completed, what is truly healing is the work itself: Feeling the breath moving through the body as if it was a hollow bamboo shape. Feeling the body warm up from the inside as we move through sun salutations. Feeling the mind become open and still as we approach Shavasana. That is the beauty. Not becoming more flexible over the years and one day, suddenly, mastering forearm stand. Being in the zone, forgetting time and space, while searching for that perfect metaphor or perfect light or perfect music phrase, that is what connects us with our Self. That is what it means to be fully present. And like all journeys, this one won't radically change who we are. And still, every time we return, we will never be quite the same as before.