By Guest Writer Timothy Hoogwerf

The space I do my practice is messy and can be chaotic. In the mornings, when I do my practice, I might have a cat wind its way between my legs, or a child ask for help of one kind or another.

Some mornings are grey and others have sunlight streaming through the windows casting shadows against the walls as the light plays through the tree branches outside.

Sometimes I have incense burning, sometimes not.

My practice might be 5 minutes or 85 minutes depending on when I wake up, if my kids need me for something, how I feel, or what work I have on for the day.

This space is where we watch TV and read books, where my partner and I have been working from home since March, and our spare bedroom. And it is my space.

Once my mat is rolled out on the floor it doesn’t matter what else this space is used for. It becomes my special sacred space.

I know the books on the bookshelves, the smudges on the walls, the spiderwebs in the corners, the pictures hanging on the walls. They have witnessed my frustrations, clumsiness, fears, sadness, and joy as I practice. They are my silent companions, the same objects day after day on which I concentrate while holding a pose.

This is my sacred special space and I love it just the way it is.