Six months ago, the mother of a student emailed me asking for private classes. The opening line of the message said “Dear Miss Malinverni, I have been looking... I have been looking for healing...” She told me about her diagnosis: She has a degenerative eye disease, which according to Western medicine cannot be cured and eventually leads to blindness. I replied that I didn't think I was the right person to help her. After all, I was only a yoga teacher, not a therapist, never mind a healer. However, this lady, let's call her Anja, would not take no for an answer. Eventually I agreed to setting up a few sessions.

For the last six months we have been working together. The first time I saw her, I had to hold back my tears. I was so touched by her trust in me and her willingness to be here. Strangely, even though I had no idea where I was going, I somehow knew where to start. I worked intuitively and created a practice that combines yin poses with different Pranayamas to soothe the nervous system. I created meditations around themes like taking refuge, accepting what is, trusting the process and allowing ourselves to be okay with only 50% of what we think is barely good enough. One Kriya particularly resonates with Anja: She loves Brahma Mudra because it is directly connected to the sense of sight. She says she feels a difference since she has been doing it regularly, which is now every night.

Anja's eyesight really is a handycap. There have been several occasions where her whole body was temporarily paralyzed in shock because out of the blue she could no longer see. Still she goes everywhere and tries to do as much as she can on her own. She is incredibly courageous and humble. Even though the work we do together is quiet and somewhat repetitive, I feel uplifted every time, and still as touched as I was the first time we met.

When we sit down together, I always ask her for an update on her health. She often tells me about her daunting doctor's appointments. Most of the experts she has seen either play her condition down or are flat out patronizing and tactless. There is one eye doctor who basically told her to get a grip and a white cane with a pair of dark sunglasses. But Anja is not the kind of person who gives up. Just a couple of weeks ago, she went to see a very special optologist. The optologist told her that due to a long ago car accident her pupils have shifted their position and are facing slightly outward. It is thus more difficult for the brain to create one single image from two slightly dislocated sources of information. Because of that difficulty Anja's nervous system is in constant fight or flight mode and the glands are constantly emitting stress hormones into her blood stream. Which also explains her chronic acidity and insomnia.

When she said this my eyes widened! Everything we have been doing over the last six months was aimed at calming and centering. I had intuitively chosen that approach because it seemed a no brainer that when the nervous system is more relaxed, all the resources needed for healing will be replenished. When we breathe deeply and relax our muscles, it tricks the body into what we call rest and digest mode (as opposed to fight or flight). In other words the parasympathetic nervous system responds and creates overall balance in the body. When we do something to relax us – and that could be as simple as going for a walk or reading a book – the brain assumes that there is no immediate danger and everything can let go: The heart rate decreases, the blood pressure drops, the blood flow is directed into the digestive tract. All bodily functions work harmoniously.

All Anja and I have been doing together is aimed at relaxing and regenarating the system. And in a flash we found out that this is the precise antidote for Anja's constant emission of Cortisol and Adrenaline.

I am realizing, however, that Anja knew. Not in an intellectual way. But she was so sure she wanted to see me and only me. I'm not saying this because I think I am particularly good or special. I am saying this because it reminds me of a miraculous thing: We know. We always do. If only we have the courage to elbow our intellect out of the way, another type of wisdom can get through. We begin to listen inwards and hear our inner voice. Call it intuition, gut feeling, inner guru, guidance. But it usually takes us down the right path.

Inspite of all the doctors talking down at her and ignoring her instincts, exhorting her to give up hope and settle for invalidity, Anja has never given up. She has listened to her inner voice and she has gone where that voice led her. Now, many months later, there is even a scientific explanation for what she immediately felt was the way to go. She was imperturbable. And she was right to be so.

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.