After the first spark, the real yoga begins: Abhyāsa–vairāgya and the art of staying with the Ashtanga path.

Initial enthusiasm is only the beginning: a reflection on falling in love, letting go, and the steady discipline of Ashtanga yoga—the best advice for remaining in the practice.

Enamoramiento vs amor hacía la práctica

In this piece, I’d like to offer a reflection on the process of falling in love with the practice, and on the ingredients needed to invest in a long-lasting relationship.

Have you just started practicing Ashtanga, or are you a seasoned practitioner? It doesn’t matter. The tendencies of the mind arise whenever the right conditions are present.

Whether you are going through a great romance with yoga, or feel that you’re losing interest in the practice, or have already experienced both, I invite you to read this article and share your experience with me.

The thousandth Sun Salutation

There is a very particular emotion we all know and endlessly try to repeat: that first spark with something new.

In the world of yoga, we are not immune to it.

You arrive at the shala and see practitioners moving with a mixture of strength and lightness. You hear the sound of the breath, you sense that immaculate concentration, you feel the heat of the room… and you get excited. Something inside you says: I want that.

The first days — sometimes months — are filled with enthusiasm. You learn the Sun Salutations, Sūrya Namaskāra A and B, you memorize the order of the postures, you discover muscles, sensations, and strengths you didn’t know existed. You leave practice feeling you’ve found something special, something that could stay with you for a long time. This is the stage of infatuation.

But Ashtanga, like any honest practice, doesn’t take long to reveal its true nature.

The day comes when the body feels heavy. T

he fatigue of early mornings arrives.

Winter with its wind and rain.

The darkness of frozen dawns.

The moment when you feel too old for this, too young, too weak, or too strong — duality seems endless.

The constant repetition of the same sequence begins to feel monotonous.

Those practitioners you once saw as angels fallen from the sky now look, in your eyes, like sweaty fanatics wrapped in shiny leggings.

And then, quietly, the temptation to abandon the practice appears.

It is here that yoga stops being a romantic experience and becomes a path.

In the Yoga Sūtras of Patañjali, the sage speaks of two fundamental pillars of practice: abhyāsa and vairāgya.

Abhyāsa is the sustained effort to stabilize the mind. It is not practicing only when things go well. It is returning to the mat again and again, even when there is no enthusiasm, when there is fatigue, when it rains, when all that exists is repetition. When there are no reasons beyond simply being present. It is doing what needs to be done. Full stop.

Vairāgya is even subtler: it is letting go of the expectation of results.

Practicing without obsession, without measuring the value of the session by how it went. It is disinterest in the fruits of action. It is doing what needs to be done without expectations, without drama, without constant negotiation with the outcome.

The initial infatuation is usually full of expectations: a more flexible body, a calmer mind, a more ordered life, that promised happiness.

But Ashtanga, with its fixed sequence and daily repetition, gradually polishes that superficial enthusiasm until it becomes something more stable.

At first, you fall in love with the practice.Then the practice begins to transform you. And finally, when enthusiasm is no longer the main driving force, you discover something deeper: a quiet, lasting relationship with the process.

In another sūtra it is said that practice becomes firmly grounded when done for a long time, without interruption, and with devotion (dīrgha-kāla-nairantarya-satkāra-āsevito dṛḍha-bhūmiḥ).

It does not mention enthusiasm.

It does not speak of motivation.

It does not promise intense emotions. It speaks of continuity.

And that is the great lesson of Ashtanga.

It is not about finding the perfect practice, but about staying when the practice stops being perfect. About showing up on the mat on an ordinary day, with an ordinary body and an ordinary mind. About repeating the thousandth Sun Salutation without expecting anything extraordinary.

Curiously, it is in that territory without fireworks where something more valuable than enthusiasm begins to appear: stability, clarity, patience.

A form of love less spectacular, but far more real.

Because the true romance of yoga is not in the first month of practice.

It is not in year three.

It is not in year five.

It os in the ordinary day when you unroll your mat without thinking too much… and simply practice.