I have practised yoga for more than thirty years.

Over that time, the shape of my practice has changed many times.

There have been years when I wanted to move. To learn another posture. To stay longer. To understand more.

Vinyasa has remained an important part of my practice. I still love the feeling of the body moving with the breath, the warmth that gathers through repetition, the concentration that comes from following one movement into the next.

But somewhere along the way, I began making more room for something else.

Rest.

What grows around us seems to meet the season we are living through.

As the days remain warm and the earth becomes drier, I find myself drawn towards foods with freshness and moisture. Berries. Tomatoes. Cucumber. Leaves picked from the garden. Food that requires very little before it reaches the plate.

The body has its own way of noticing the year.

Appetite shifts.

Thirst changes.

A breakfast that felt right in winter can feel too heavy now.

No single moment announces the arrival of a new season.

It reveals itself through small changes that gather day by day.

Returning to the same place allows us to notice them.

A flower opening.

Another releasing its seeds.

The grasses becoming paler beneath the sun.

The practice often begins with movement.

A foot steps forward. An arm reaches overhead. The breath follows the shape of the body.

We arrive carrying the momentum of the day. The body is already moving. The mind is already moving.

Then something begins to settle.

Attention returns to the breath. The gaze rests on a single point. The body learns how to remain in one place for a little longer than before.

The chair sits in the same place.

Morning light moves across the floor.

The apricots ripen a little more each day.

Most of life changes so gradually that we hardly notice it happening.

We notice the blossom when it appears. We notice the fruit when it arrives. We notice the strength in a posture when one day it feels easier than it once did.

What we often miss is the accumulation.

What supports growth is established before growth becomes visible.

Practice follows a similar rhythm.

The postures that feel steady today are supported by movements repeated long before they felt natural. The breath settles more easily because it has been returned to many times before. Balance develops through familiarity. Strength develops through repetition.

The body changes with light, temperature, season, age, activity. What supports us changes too. By late spring, digestion often begins to lighten. Bitter greens return. Herbs become sharper. Meals simplify.

But simplicity does not mean absence.

The body still needs grounding while energy rises.

This is where the pantry supports the season.

Earlier spring carries upward movement. Energy begins to rise after winter. The body looks for space again. By mid spring, that first momentum steadies. Movement becomes less about emergence and more about continuity.

The rhythm changes.

Practice no longer feels like returning from winter. It becomes part of the landscape again. Something repeated often enough that the body stops announcing it.

Bluebells carry a similar quality.

They do not appear individually. They move in groups, gradually covering the woodland floor until the eye stops separating one stem from another. The effect comes through accumulation. Through repetition over time.

The body protects the places it has learned to hold.

So the work becomes less about forcing movement and more about returning to it. Again and again. A few breaths. A small adjustment. The same action repeated over time.

At first, the movement belongs mostly to effort.

The arms lift.
The chest tightens.
The neck compensates.
The breath shortens slightly as the body approaches its edge.

Then gradually, repetition begins to alter the relationship.

The shoulders start to recognise the shape.
The breath remains steadier inside the movement.
The body uses less force to arrive in the same place.

Support changes the experience of opening.