Day 12

Yoga Classes: 24

Books: 6

Massages: 3

If heaven had a blueprint, it might be sketched from Yoga Barn—a realm where rivers thread through the labyrinth of yoga shalas, each cradled by the jungle and blessed by the divine herself. Honestly, if I'd conjured this place from my own hallucinations, I wouldn't mind, shoot, I'd be impressed. Tell me I can never leave, and I'd simply shrug and pull up the schedule. Every day unfolds like a never-ending global yoga festival, a purgatory of dreams.

On Day 3, I had my mind rocked by Made Murni - a Balinese enchantress who guided us through one of the most passionate and well-sequenced vinyasa classes I’ve taken in over eighteen years. It was one of those classes where you're praying the teacher will break her watch, forget the time and keep you floating and flowing in the 5D for hours. It wasn’t simply her teaching style either; the property itself cradles even the most wounded parts of your soul. Each element is a deliberate craft, intentionally designed to embrace anyone, from any background, making them feel at ease.

Passing through the gates feels like an enormous inhale, followed by an exhale that reverberates throughout your entire nervous system. A gentle breeze escorts you to the heart of the property, wind tickling the leaves around you, creating a soothing shhhh noise as the gentle hums of classes in session coax you forward - like a siren song that leads you somewhere epic.

Murni led us in a space that quickly became my favorite—a sanctuary accessed only by bridge, a realm seemingly protected by an imaginary boundary. A glass haven embraced by gardens, a koi river, and a jungle wall so thick you can barely locate the giant Ganesh statue swaddled in the overgrowth. It's like living a real-life Hindu version of "Where's Waldo."

As class started, I'd no sooner closed my eyes that the rain descended—a torrential downpour unlike anything I’ve experienced. Even deep within the Amazon jungle, Iquitos can't hold a candle to Ubud. It’s as if a celestial faucet was turned on at full tilt as silver-dollar-sized raindrops hit the earth like they were magnetized to it. I giggled to myself imaging that this is what people mean when they yell "Make it rain!!" And as it showered above us, I won't lie, I felt rich as f**k.

The rain, the music, Murni's velvety smooth voice—all at once they plunged me into a sweet memory of my Sprinter van, Felicia. A smile played on my lips as I imagined lying inside, watching flower mandalas on the ceiling slowly fade colors as the sound of rain hitting steel lulled me into a trance. This felt like that, only this time, I wasn't cozied up in a parking lot in Menlo Park; I was in Bali, living the life I've dreamt of since I was 13.

Then another thought struck me - someone is going to have to drag me out of here, potentially kicking, screaming and clawing at earth. And If you're reading this, please don't. I don't want to be saved.