Where it started
The origin story of Phoenix Yoga, risen from the ashes of The House of Yoga, is closely linked to my own yoga roots. Although I was first introduced to yoga on a beach in Italy by my cousin, The House of Yoga was one of the first studios I visited to explore these seemingly strange shapes that my body seemed totally incapable of making.
I have always loved to move. I played sport competitively to a pretty high standard at school and university, so it surprised me just how difficult I found some of the movements and asana — movements that seemed completely effortless when demonstrated by some teachers.
In those early days, the classes were often heated and packed with sweaty bodies. Sometimes the first feeling at the end was simply relief at having survived without passing out or knocking someone else out.
After years of moving my body in a competitive atmosphere, I inevitably approached yoga in much the same way. I thought the postures were there to be conquered. I forced my body as far as possible and followed sequences blindly, almost religiously. At times the classes made me feel strong, almost euphoric. At others I felt hypnotised by the communal energy and flow.
When the questions started
As I became more familiar with the physical postures and sequences, I began to pay closer attention to how I actually felt — during class, at the end of it and in the days that followed.
I noticed that some classes and some moments left me in real pain, particularly in my knees and lower back. Other classes did not. They left me with the strength and happiness that kept me coming back for more.
When I was not in pain, I also began to notice something else. In the final resting pose, savasana, I sometimes experienced a blissful state of calmness: a stillness of mind that felt completely different from its usual whirring. The whirring returned fairly quickly once I was back at work — or even just back on my phone.
At the time I was working in Putney, a few hundred metres from The House of Yoga, at an independent estate agent. This was around 2013, when smartphones were really beginning their sinister takeover of our gaze and attention, and there seemed to be no escape from the many-headed hydra of the modern inbox.
All of this made me curious. Why were some classes causing me physical pain and spiking my adrenaline, while others left me feeling calm, peaceful and strong? Why were some teachers pushing me to do more, while others suggested I should do less? What was the purpose of the strange shapes I was trying to make? Where had they come from? Did certain shapes have to be made in a certain order to find that sense of bliss at the end of class?
Why did some students find particular poses so easy while others found them so difficult? Why did some teachers invite questions and dialogue while others strictly forbade it? Why did some have strict rules about alignment and preparation, while others seemed to say that anything goes and everything is beautiful and wonderful?
Into the yoga forest
I explored yoga classes all over London, with teachers from all over the world. Some claimed a special lineage to an authentic practice stretching back thousands of years. Others simply said they had found a way of teaching that made sense to them.
The more I explored, the more I realised what an endless journey it was. As part of that exploration — rather than from any clear intention to teach — I completed my first teacher training in 2017. It was fascinating to discover how vast the yoga forest was, and how many different trees and branches lay within it.
Family sickness and changes at work later led me into something of a mid-life crisis, and I decided to go all in with teaching and further study. I set myself three clear intentions: not to harm anyone (ahimsa), to share what little knowledge I had (jnana), and to make classes joyful (santosha).
Inevitably, the path has not been linear. Finding the middle path continues to be a daily practice.
Use the pose to get into your body
A better understanding of anatomy has helped me enormously. It has made me see the importance of not forcing my own body — or anybody else’s — into a pose or movement that does not feel right.
Our individual physiognomy is unique in the most extraordinary and wonderful way. The more you really look at students, the more obvious that becomes. Anatomy books can give the strange illusion that everybody is the same and that, with enough time and dedication, everybody can eventually do the same things.
I still have a lot of faith in human potential and in the idea that we can do more than we might think. But I now see yoga practice and yoga asana as tools for understanding your unique body and its potential.
I love the mantra popularised by Bernie Clark: “Use the pose to get into your body; don’t use the body to get into the pose.”
Everyone’s intention will be different. The physical and spiritual goals will be different, and the obstacles in our paths will also be uniquely different. Of course there is common ground — and a community yoga studio is a pretty good place to find it while also celebrating the differences.
Coming back
In nine years of teaching, I have come to see that there are no perfect answers to many of the questions that first set me on this path, just as there is no perfect sequence or set of alignment cues for everyone.
I have greater empathy now with teachers who do not like students asking questions in the middle of class, even though I personally love them. Whether before, during or after a class, I believe dialogue and community are essential if we are all going to stay on the path safely, joyfully and in a way that shares our infinite variety and collective knowledge.
Over the years, some of my best teachers have been my students.
That is why I was so happy when Ray got in touch to say he wanted Phoenix Yoga to fly, and that he wanted some of his favourite and most experienced teachers to come back and help create a community of yogis who could share years of experience, continue to be curious and celebrate diversity joyfully.
For me, coming back to Phoenix was not really a return to where I started. It was a chance to come back with more questions, more experience and a much clearer sense that none of us is meant to practise — or teach — exactly like somebody else.