Presence: what is truly learned (and taught) in practice

In Ashtanga, presence is taught — not as an abstract concept, but as a lived experience, built day by day, breath by breath.

We often celebrate teachers: their path, their discipline, their example, their guidance. And rightly so. But something is often left unspoken: much of what is learned while guiding a class does not come only from one’s own teachers, but also —and sometimes very deeply— from those who step onto the mat as students.

The roles of student and guide are not as fixed as they appear. Over time, practitioners sustain the space just as much as the one who leads it. There are students who, through consistency, patience, and presence, teach without intending to. They teach how to wait, how to listen, how not to rush a process. Sometimes, they teach how to slow down — with kindness.

In practice —and particularly in Ashtanga— everyone begins in the same place. It doesn’t matter how long you have practiced something else, how many years you have been teaching, or what labels you carry. Here, you start at the beginning. And that beginning often challenges the ego.

This can feel confusing. Or frustrating. People may arrive expecting intensity, performance, or immediate physical challenge, and instead encounter something seemingly simple: few postures, basic instructions, a constant emphasis on breath. Comparison appears. Judgment arises. The thought that “this is easy” or “this is not enough.” But what is often missing is not intensity — it is presence.

In some traditional disciplines —including certain Japanese martial arts— training does not begin with mastering the main technique. It often begins with simple, repetitive actions: caring for the space, refining basic movements, showing up again and again.

Not because those actions are the goal, but because they train attention and character. They reveal impatience, resistance, and the subtle need to prove oneself.

The tool was never the sword. The tool has always been presence.

Ashtanga works in a similar way. The practice does not begin with external form, but with the ability to be present. To breathe. To observe what happens when control is lost, when understanding does not come, when progress does not meet the expectations of the ego.

From the teacher’s side, this is also an ongoing lesson. Learning to guide without imposing. Accepting that not everyone is ready to understand the same things at the same time. Recognizing one’s own frustration — the desire for the student to “get it” before they are ready. The practice teaches here as well.

In the end, everything returns to the same point: presence.Breath as the bridge to the mind.The mind as a space of observation.Clarity as the result of sustaining this work, again and again.

The external forms —postures, strength, skill— may look impressive. But they are not the source. They are a consequence. The real work happens much earlier, in what is invisible: attention, breath, and the capacity to stay with what is.

That is what is practiced.That is what is learned.And often, that is what is taught without a single word.