And Now, We Begin
- Jennifer Peck
- Jan 1
- 3 min read
There is a simple and powerful line that opens the Yoga Sutras:
Atha yogānuśāsanam.
It’s often translated as “And now, the teachings of yoga begin.”
That small phrase — and now — has stayed with me over the years. Not because it marks a dramatic beginning, but because it doesn’t.
In the yogic tradition, atha doesn’t mean this is the first time. It means now that you are here. Now that you are present. Now that readiness has arrived.
And so… we begin.
For much of my life, I was someone who chased change at the New Year.
I made rigid plans. Created structures I was sure would fix things. Declared intentions with the best of hopes.
And almost always, by the end of the first week of January, I felt defeated — like I had already failed the year before it truly began.
What I see now is that I wasn’t failing. I was forcing.
I was trying to begin from the mind instead of from the body.
From expectation instead of presence.
What time, experience, and these ancient teachings have shown me is something much simpler — and much kinder:
We are always beginning.
We begin each morning. Each breath. Each moment we pause and return to ourselves.
Our bodies are never static. Nature is never static. Life itself is in a constant state of change, unfolding moment by moment, season by season.
I take countless photos of the same (or different angles) my view outside outside in the yard — sometimes within minutes of each other. To anyone else they might look repetitive, but to me they are a quiet reminder of how quickly, and how subtly, things change.
Some days the shift is dramatic: light, color, weather, mood. Other days it’s barely noticeable unless you’re really looking. Either way, the invitation is the same — to begin again, right here, right now.
The idea that transformation must start on one specific day — and look a certain way — is a modern story. Yoga offers something different.
It reminds us that beginning happens now.
As we step into this new year, I’m no longer interested in grand resolutions or rigid plans.
I’m interested in small, living practices that meet us where we are.
For me, that begins with the breath.
Before I get out of bed each morning, I take one conscious minute to breathe. Sometimes I simply notice the inhale and exhale. Other times — especially if I wake in the middle of the night — I gently visualize the breath moving side to side, like a soft internal nadi shodhana, calming my nervous system before the day even begins.
One minute. No striving. No fixing.
Just arriving.
This is how I’m choosing to begin the year.
Not by trying to become someone new — but by meeting myself here.
And tomorrow, I will begin again. And the next day. And the next breath.
Because beginning is not something we do once.
It’s something we return to.
Yesterday, on the final day of the year, I received an abhyanga treatment from my teacher. Deeply nourishing, grounding, and clarifying in a way that’s hard to put into words. As we spoke afterward, she named something that landed deeply in my body — magical doorways.
It felt profound because it wasn’t abstract or aspirational. It was felt. Held. Lived. And as I sat with it, I knew she was right.
2026 feels like a magical doorway.
Not something to rush through, but something to cross with presence, reverence, and trust.
And maybe that’s the invitation — not to reinvent ourselves at the turn of the year, but to arrive fully as we step through what’s already opening.
With the breath. With the body. With awareness.
Last night, just before the year turned, I was moving through a little yoga at home when I heard the owl calling from outside. I stepped into the cold night air to listen — and to wish her a happy new year too.
Turn the volume up to listen to the owl!
Owls have a way of appearing at thresholds. They see in the dark. They move quietly between worlds. They don’t rush — they listen, wait, and then act with precision.
Standing there, I felt it clearly: the year wasn’t ending with a resolution, but with awareness. With presence. With a quiet knowing that something new was opening.
With the breath. With the body. With awareness.
And now… we begin.
Comments