With the warm breezes of December stirring up, and mixing up, the universe’s energy, yoga has become the most consistent event in my universe. Take the strange un-seasonably balmy December weather and add it to the even stranger, unimaginably violent acts of one human toward another, and it makes you want to crawl into a (stocked and furnished) hole until it’s all right again. Yoga is its own kind of insulated hole. When you crawl into the warm cocoon of the studio, roll out your mat onto your little rectangle of space and turn your thoughts inward, you instantly feel protected. It’s a chance to turn off the outside noise and listen to the subtle messages emanating from deep inside your joints, your connective tissue, your tendons, ligaments and muscles, and every day they’re telling you a different story. You just have to slow down enough and find a quiet space to listen to your unique story. I am discovering that every day my body has a new story to tell, and it’s never the same.