I Moved—And Got Rid of Every Yoga Book I Ever Owned

Yoga books? I gave all mine away. “Ouch,” I thought as I dropped them off at the school where I used to teach. Heavy yoga teacher-training binder? I scanned some of its pages. Then I tossed it. And I felt lighter. My yoga sequences—the faintly penciled stick figures on dog-eared pages in notebooks with torn edges? These are irreplaceable and un-scannable. But I threw those away, too.

Why did I get rid of 30 pounds worth of yoga books and notes? I’m moving from Taos, New Mexico, to London, England—and I’m only bringing a single suitcase. Although I’ve lugged my yoga collection from state to state over the last 20 years, I won’t bring it across an ocean. It became increasingly clear to me that I couldn’t pack much of it, at least not if I wanted space for clothes or shoes. Although I was sorry to say goodbye to the couch, the cactus, and the French Press, my yoga library was the hardest to part with.

It wasn’t until I caught sight of the empty shelves in my yoga room that I found myself close to panic without the couple dozen essential books I’d amassed over the years: Light on Yoga; Hatha Yoga Pradipika; Bhagavad Gita; The Heart of Yoga; Yoga Mind, Body, and Spirit; The Woman’s Book of Yoga and Health; The Yoga of Breath; Accessible Yoga; Chakra Yoga; Teaching Trauma-Sensitive Yoga; The Stories Behind the Poses; Yoga Anatomy. Some of them I assigned to my teacher-training students and re-read with them every year. Others I’d consult before coming up with a home practice or a sequence to teach my classes. I could turn to my books and notes if I wasn’t sure which muscles were contracting or extending in a pose, or to remind myself of the meaning behind a pose name. If I was blanking on ideas for class themes or sequences, those books had my back.

“England has libraries,” I said in an attempt to comfort myself. “Or I can buy the books again if I really miss them. I can download digital versions. I can find answers to my burning yoga questions in reliable sources online. I’ll make new notes. Even better notes.” That helped calm my rapid breathing—but only slightly.

If I’m honest, I had held onto my yoga books and notes for so long because I wanted to remember everything in them. There was certainly an element of perfectionism there; if I knew their contents by heart, I would be qualified to be a yoga instructor, able to answer every question my students had, and all of my own. But I also thought that what was in them was beautiful and wise, and I wanted to have all that beauty and wisdom—not only at my fingertips but in my own mind. Suddenly being alone with my yoga practice felt like it had something to teach me about sitting with uncertainty.

In the weeks following my giveaways, as I was making goodbye visits to family, and practicing yoga booklessly, I realized that my books and notes had exerted an influence on me by their mere presence. They emanated “shoulds” at me: “I should re-read them.” “I should do things their way.” “I should know more than I do.” They were to-do lists that could never be entirely done. And when I got rid of those to-do lists, I felt liberated and more than a little scared—as if I found myself in the wilderness without a guide.

One thing I’ve always liked about Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras—another book I no longer have—is that he defined svadyaya(self-study) as a niyama (observance) practiced by both the study of spiritual texts and self-study; I did the former, and now I’ll do the latter. I may not have my books, but I have my spine and my toes and my knees. I have my breath. I have my mind, with all the interesting, new fluctuations (fear! excitement! hope!) in it that comes from making a big move. I can study these for a while.

Going bookless is a surrender; it is me finally admitting I cannot and will not know their entire contents by heart….and me experimenting with the idea that this is okay. That I know enough to get by, at least for now, that I have absorbed enough of their beauty and wisdom to live on, at least for a little while, and my commitment to yoga does not depend on—and is not proved by—my collection of books and notes.

I am trusting you, yoga. Trusting that I’ll still have you even when I’ve given everything else away. Come off the pages. Be as sprawling as I think you are. Be everywhere.