When Her Fingers Snap

This week's Yin Yoga practice explores elemental resilience in the face of loss, grief, and renewal. Includes a poem inspired by Hafiz.

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Dear reader,

I don’t adapt to change easily. Not even after twenty years of Buddhist meditation. Big changes still knock the wind out of me. They disorient. They unravel. Sometimes they feel less like an invitation and more like exile.

But beneath the confusion—once the dust settles—there’s often a quieter thread. Not an explanation. Not a reason. Just a subtle shift in how I meet the moment. A loosening. A letting go.

This week’s Yin Practice leans into that tender place. No big theory. No spiritual bypass. Just a chance to feel what’s here—to kneel into it, to breathe with it, to listen for what still stirs beneath the noise of endings.

Here’s a short poem I wrote to accompany the practice.

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April 30th

When Her Fingers Snap
it is not for cruelty,
nor to show the smallness of your grasp.
It is to scatter the illusions
you mistook for belonging.

There’s the snap;
the house burns,
old loves fall away,
your name drifts like smoke.

You may hear it first as thunder,
as judgment,
as loss.

Listen longer—
beneath the shatter,
there are small sounds:
seeds split,
rivers thaw,
a gate swings open.

Your hands, your heart,
your stunned, stubborn breath—
they remember…

It’s not the end;
It’s the beginning you forgot you asked for.

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This Week’s Practice

This week’s Yin Yoga session invites you into that kind of listening:

A slow, grounded exploration of Earth, Water, Wood, Metal, and Fire as living conditions—not abstractions.

Let the postures steady and stir you. Let them whisper their wisdom into your breath, your bones, your presence.

👉 [Access Yin Practice Lab #8: When Her Fingers Snap] (for paid subscribers)