Intuitive Flow Yoga Studio

Today is Saraswati, the day we honour our teachers.

Naturally, my thoughts turn to my teacher, Tjokorda Rai, with whom I studied for 25 years.

He had an immense impact on my life. In his presence, my śakti (inner energy) was able to manifest and grow. He encouraged me constantly, even when I drifted away from the practice and got pulled into other activities. He never lost faith in me.

What he transmitted to me was Ta**ra, the union of Śiva and Śakti, the recognition of the non-dual state that lives within us.

He often said, much like Tirumalai Krishnamacharya, that a teacher is nothing more, nothing less than a friend. And this is how he was with me.

To this day, I still remember things he told me that I didn’t fully understand at the time. Now, those teachings return, quietly, and I see them with new eyes. My understanding of human nature has deepened, and I recognise his words living within that understanding.

This is why transmission matters. It is not the same as attending a workshop, learning techniques, taking notes, and moving on. When there is true transmission from a teacher, it stays with you. It unfolds over time. It becomes part of how you see, how you feel, how you live.

I am also deeply grateful to Ramana Maharishi, to Arunachala. Advaita came later in my life and has become a quiet foundation in my spiritual path. Through it, I came into a deeper recognition of the Self, and from there, a more intimate connection to the divine. I continue to explore this non-dual understanding through other modalities, allowing it to keep unfolding in its own way.

And I am grateful to all the teachers I have met throughout my life. There have been many, each offering something essential. Without them, I would not be who I am.

Yogini Ishani

Dear all, I’m reaching out for your help.

Help Fenil Complete Her Nursing Education

I’m trying to support a young woman in India so she can continue her nursing studies next semester. Her father recently had an accident and is no longer able to work, which has made the situation even more difficult for her and her family.
I attempted to raise funds through Indian platforms, which only accept Indian rupees, and due to current restrictions under the Foreign Contribution Regulation Act (FCRA) ahead of the elections, it has been very difficult to receive support from overseas. So far, I’ve only been able to collect 300 rupees.
If you feel moved to help, I can guide you on how to send support to her directly. I’m also happy to share her details and proof of identity for full transparency.
Thank you from the heart for considering this.

This fundraising page is open to Indian nationals, those with an Indian bank account, or anyone able to use the QR code.

She is working hard to continue her nursing studies and needs to pay her fees by the end of this month. At the moment, sending money to India from abroad is not easy.

If you feel called to support her, even a small amount would be deeply appreciated.

Help Fenil Complete Her Nursing Education My name is Fenil Kerisha, and I am a third-year nursing student with a dream of becoming a nurse and supporting my family. Today, I am facing a painful challenge. My father, who is a fisherman and the only earning member of our family, recently suffered a serious hand injury in an accident while

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧: 𝐀 𝐉𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐈𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡

It's easier to sit for meditation, chant, or step onto our mat when life is smooth. The breath feels steady, the mind is lighter, everything flows. But life isn't always like that. Sometimes grief hits us, our plans collapse, leaving us feeling unsure of how to proceed.

That's when many step away from our practice, wait to feel better before returning. But those are the very moments when sadhana matters most. Sadhana isn't a hobby we pick up when the mood is right. It's our anchor when life throws us a curveball so sharp that it knocks the wind out of us.

In those moments, I think of the mountain. The winds blow, the rains flood down its slopes. And yet, the mountain stays rooted. It doesn't run. It doesn't wait for brighter skies. Our sadhana makes us that mountain. Breath, asana, mantra, meditation, prayer, whatever form our practice takes, it's what keeps us steady when life tries to shake us loose.

When challenges arise, we are in a perfect state to meet our fears, not with force or charge, but with a calm, steady strength. Instead of getting lost in the stories of the mind, we can bring our attention to the raw sensation of it. Fear itself can become the teacher when we don't resist it. Where does fear live inside us? Maybe it's tightness in the chest, a knot in the stomach, or a lump in the throat. We notice it, we don't push it away. We meet it with curiosity, as if we were encountering it for the first time.

Then we remember the mountain, solid, grounded, unmoving. Fear is only the storm: wind, rain, clouds passing overhead. However intense, it cannot move the mountain. In the same way, we are not our fear. We are the ground beneath it, the steady presence that watches it come and go. Vedānta reminds us: we are not the body, not the mind, not even the waves of emotion; we are the Self (ātman), unchanging, infinite, untouched by the storm. The more we rest in that Truth, the more we discover courage, not as boldness, but as a quiet, unshakable strength that is already ours.

If we only start sadhana when trouble hits us, it's like planting a tree in the middle of a storm. It won't take root. The roots need to be there already, deep in the earth, so that when the storms do come, we can bend without breaking.

So when we feel low, we don't abandon our practice. We show up anyway, even if it's just five minutes. Even if all we can do is sit in silence with tears streaming down our faces. That is still sadhana. That is still courage. And over time, this is how we become unshakable, like the mountain, knowing storms will come and go, but they never stay.

On a more personal note, I now understand why Ramana Maharshi, one of the great sages of modern India, said that Arunachala, the holy mountain in South India, was his guru. To him, the mountain was not just stone and earth but the silent presence of Truth itself: unmoving, steady, endlessly still, yet alive with a force beyond words. When I reflect on his devotion to Arunachala, I see how the mountain embodies what Vedānta teaches us: the storms of fear and emotion may pass across the surface, but the Truth itself remains untouched. This image reminds me that the true guru is not outside; it is within. The mountain leads us to our own essence, anchored, unshakable, untouched by storms. When we unite with that inner Arunachala through sadhana, we understand why Ramana bowed to the mountain: it reflected the eternal Self. This unchanging reality is always present.

The mountain is not outside—it is who we truly are.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞—𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞.

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Beneath the movement is the language of the breath. Beneath the breath is presence. Now. Join us in Penestanan, Ubud. intuitiveflow.com. #yogainbali#ubudyoga#baliretreat#yogainubud#baliyogajourney#baliyogaretreat#languageofthebreath#presencepractice#sacredmovement#innerstillness#yogawithsoul#breathisnow

𝐎𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 - 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦

Last week, I visited the Niki de Saint Phalle exhibition at the Musée National des Beaux-Arts de Québec with a friend. Her art is powerful, raw, and luminous all at once. One part of the show was a video that touched me so profoundly. Niki spoke about forgiving her father for molesting her as a child. What struck me most was not only her words, but the way she said them. It was clear that her forgiveness came from the heart, not from reasoning, not from forced spirituality, but from lived truth. Her story stirred a memory in me.

Afterward, my friend turned to me and said, I don't understand how she could forgive him. Her words pulled me back to my past, to another moment when forgiveness seemed impossible.
I was waiting for the bus one day, tucked into the entrance of a building to escape the Canadian cold. I began talking with a couple, and what they shared has stayed with me for life. They told me they had forgiven the murderer of their child. At the time, I was as stunned as my friend was at Niki's story. How could anyone possibly do that? But then they explained. They forgave not for the murderer's sake, but for their own. To release themselves from carrying corrosive anger that would otherwise eat them alive.

That was my first profound lesson in forgiveness. It's not about declaring what someone did is acceptable. It's not about forgetting. Forgiveness is a way of saying: I will not let this wound dictate the rest of my life. I will not feed my spirit with resentment.

True forgiveness transforms memory. It allows you to remember differently. If you've lived through an abusive relationship or trusted a business partner who betrayed you, the point is not to wipe the slate clean as if nothing happened. The fact is to remember differently. To learn the lesson so you don't repeat it, without letting the wound keep defining you. You can carry the memory and the wisdom, without holding the bitterness.
In the case of Niki, her forgiveness was a form of liberation, not a lesson she was supposed to learn. I see Niki Saint Phalles' art as both a wound and a release. Her 'Tirs' violent performances, where plastered targets exploded in a rain of colour, made the wound visible, and the release undeniable. Her journey is much more than just a question of forgiveness. She expressed her healing through art, through anger, through creation, and finally through letting go. This forgiveness came later in her life, when she found an inner balance.

The murder of a child or child abuse is brutal to face, let alone forgive. Yet resentment, too, takes its toll. I think this couple's faith gave them a way to forgive. Niki found another way, through art, through creation, through truth-telling. What unites both paths is the understanding that resentment takes a toll. Our health, our nervous system, our joy all pay the price when we hold on too tightly to rancour. Forgiveness, on the other hand, makes you feel alive.

Hindu philosophy and yoga speak to this: to hold on to anger is to bind yourself. To forgive is to free yourself. Patañjali's Yoga Sutra (II.33, pratipakṣa bhāvanam) teaches that when a destructive thought arises, we can invite its opposite. Holding on to anger is duḥkha, suffering. Forgiveness is sukha, ease. In yoga, we also say the body remembers. Each exhale is a chance to let something go. Practicing asana with conscious breathing, supported by pranayama, can open that release even further.

For me, Yoga Nidra has been powerful. It guides us into the subconscious, where old wounds lie hidden. In that stillness, forgiveness doesn't have to be forced. It rises on its own, like the body's natural softening, like a hand finally unclenching.

Of course, forgiveness doesn't come easily. Sometimes it takes years, lifetimes. And not everyone will be ready to embrace it. But when you are, some practices can help. Some find solace in their faith, some in the Serenity Prayer from AA, for example. Others might turn to the universe itself.

Even if those words feel impossible in the face of certain crimes, the essence is this: forgiveness is less about them and more about you. And when it is real, like Niki's, it comes from the heart, fragile perhaps, but still a doorway to peace.

Standing before Niki's work, I felt forgiveness not as an abstract idea but as a current moving in me, a reminder that, like yoga, it is a practice of opening into freedom. Something that ties back to your own lived experience.

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