Nature as a silent teacher

Along the quiet banks of the river Lek, the seasons unfold like a slow, ancient breath. With every shift of the landscape, an inner shift calls to us as well. The great currents of tamas, rajas, and sattva move through nature just as they move through our own bodies. Winter’s heaviness loosens. Spring’s first pulse of rajas stirs the sap in the trees and the breath in our chest. Summer rises into full radiance; autumn softens again toward stillness. These rhythms mirror our own life cycle—childhood’s wonder, adulthood’s fullness, the contemplative years, and the gentle art of letting go.

Yet when we listen deeply beneath the noise of days, beneath the surface of thought—we discover another rhythm: the inner Dharma, the tone that is uniquely ours. Meditation refines the subtle nerves until the body becomes a sevenstringed instrument, each chakra a note in the scale of our original nature. Along the Lek, where silence has its own music, this inner resonance becomes easier to hear.

After a yoga practice, when voices rise together in AUM, something subtle shifts. The tone becomes rounder, clearer —almost as if the river itself hums along. In the meditations on Anahata Nada, the unstruck sound of the heart, and Nada Brahmasana, the inner sound of creation, we enter the realm described by Svatmarama: the flute within, the drum within, the bell within—instruments not of the outer world, but of the vast, quiet world inside.

Even the simple recitation of Lam, Vam, Ram, Yam, Ham, Tham, AUM aligns body and mind into a single, luminous pitch. And in Bhramari Pranayama, the humming breath, we rediscover the vibration that threads all life together—like the bees that soon return to dance above the river meadows in spring.

What nature teaches us—what the Lek whispers each morning—is that wellbeing begins with tuning ourselves to the tone of our true Nature. To breathe with awareness. To listen with intention. To notice the small miracles: a bird balancing on a reed, the play of sunlight on water, the scent of damp earth rising.

Yoga reminds us of this during every lesson, but its invitation extends far beyond the mat. When we attune ourselves daily—while walking along the river, while practicing yoga, or while pausing between tasks—we rise above the outer seasons. We carry a quiet spring within us, a sense of everrenewing youth.

And if we forget, swept away by the rush of the day? Then, as little Tristan, my beloved grandson, would say with a smile full of truth: “Too bad, Grandpa!”

I wish you strength, clarity, and a beautiful beginning, Michelle, with your new yoga group. May your path unfold with the same natural grace as the river Lek—steady, renewing, and full of quiet light. A small but heartfelt contribution.