I tried to get my soulmate to yoga classes with me but he had been reluctant, though he is a practising yogi. The first time was at a hot yoga class in Jakarta, back in those days when he was agreeable and at his best behaviour. Then, I remember, he had grinned sheepishly and lasciviously at me on the mat beside him. Yes, I still remember his mischievous smile. Not what that should be happening in a yoga class.

Yet, he practises yoga.

He tells me he watches podcast of this group of women doing yoga in nature in Colorado. I don’t know if he was joking or not.

He is such a purist, such an extremist. Though he owns a pair of cool gold Lululemon trousers that he bought by mistake, not knowing its connotations (Lululemon is THE yoga wear of cool yogis).

For him, this is yoga:

I love his yoga. The way he goes into downward dog in the middle of a rural road somewhere, amongst the tall grasses. The handstands all over Singapore to express his joy. The solitary practice in Africa. The way he holds my hands and looks into my eyes. That’s his yoga. Yoga is something we do together, side by side (main photo), one of the things I love most about him.

I came across this yesterday (please click on this link to view):

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