The yoga teacher I studied with for over twenty years, the man who taught me most of what I understand about yoga—the skills of teaching, the physical and spiritual practice—died Oct. 21, 2024. He’d been ill for a while, and his wife said he died peacefully.
I honor his life and work by teaching and also by practicing. By remembering not just what he taught but how he taught: with respect, humor, knowledge, and insight, with attention to every person in the room—the real room or the Zoom room—guiding students to be their most conscious selves. I used to commute all the way to Albuquerque to take his classes. The studio where he taught closed in 2020, and I continued to study with him online.
When his cancer was diagnosed, I knew I wouldn’t see him again. He was my teacher, not my social friend, a reserved and private person. I understood not to pressure to see him, not to intrude. I’ve been studying with his wife, also a thoughtful and caring teacher in the same tradition. As he grew more ill in hospice care, she asked me to take over her Zoom class so she could be with him. I wrote to her about his influence on me, and she shared my words with him. He changed my life.
Today, I did my yoga practice outdoors, with his teaching in mind as I always do. “Yoga is a manual for being human,” he once said. He challenged us to practice with attention to the moment, deeply awake. Sustaining a difficult asana, he gave clear permission to exit the pose at any time, while inquiring of yourself why you needed to stop. He often ended a long-held pose with “a few more breaths” to get us through it, then saying “And when you’re done, you’re done.”
Namaste, my teacher. My spirit honors your spirit.
Amber Foxx Mysteries 