Yoga Pathways

Up at 5am, I was already on the back foot after a weekend away, routine somewhere between “abandoned” and “utterly forgotten,” and a mountain of work ahead. All I wanted was the small comfort of a scalding coffee before teaching my 7am Zoom yoga class. Instead, I was greeted by the particular silence and darkness of a house entirely stripped of electricity—lights out, Wi-Fi lifeless, and the kettle just a paperweight in disguise.

My first reaction? Nobly channel my inner stoic. By which I mean, I blamed my husband Donald—currently 600 miles away on the Isle of Lewis. In fairness, he’s scarcely responsible for electrical outages at this distance, but logic never sips coffee at 5am.

After mentally dispatching a few choice words up north, I embarked on a round of Practical Heroics: hunting through drawers for tools, unscrewing what should have remained screwed, and flipping every switch in the circuit box. Nothing. My stress levels, however, were absolutely electrifying.

With my studio space now as pitch black as my mood, I was forced to relocate the 7am class to the only spot with any light—wedged between the back door and the recycling bin, all while tethering my laptop to my phone’s hotspot. Zoom, naturally, was not impressed and crashed. My yogis, poor things, got a masterclass in “staying calm in adversity” broadcast from what looked suspiciously like a cupboard.

Class finished—nerves frayed but dignity marginally intact—I decided reinforcements were required. I called a recommended electrician whose telephone system cheerfully asked if this was an “emergency.” Well, if “no coffee, no phone charging, and no internet” doesn’t qualify, I’m not sure what does. They could send someone round, but for the small matter of £250. Tired and now pragmatic, I phoned back to downgrade my crisis to “non-urgent” and was offered the next available date: a week Thursday. Apparently, existential caffeine withdrawal is not a priority.

Somewhere in the unfolding fiasco, I realised that this is real-life yoga. Not the sunlit mat and aspirational poses, but learning patience in the half-light, grappling with your own helplessness and the temptation to posthumously blame your spouse. Yoga, at its core, is adaptability—and, as it turns out, the restrained British art of finding humour in your own inconvenience.

And so, armed only with stoicism and cold resolve, I resigned myself to cave-dwelling.

Except—here’s the twist. Around mid-morning, long after my efforts, I glanced up to find that everything had miraculously sparked back to life. The lights flickered, the router blinked, the kettle purred. Not a word of explanation from the universe, just an unearned reprieve—proof that sometimes, persistence is optional and resignation oddly effective.

I suppose that’s the real yoga: not the postures or perfect routines, but the faintly ridiculous practice of letting go and carrying on. To adapt, to laugh, even as the gods of electrics grant you their mysterious mercy.

So, if you ever feel you’re left in the dark, figuratively or otherwise, remember: sometimes all it takes is a little patience, a tiny dash of humour, and, if you’re lucky, a minor electrical miracle.

Namaste—and never underestimate the kettle’s capacity for resurrection.