“I feel like we’re leaving a dream,” Mays (11) said last month as we came out of the woods in North Carolina. We had just journeyed up Mount Mitchell and back and it was a hike we’ll never forget.

Leaving the panoramic views of the Blue Ridge Parkway, we followed the Old Mitchell Trail into a shady and fragrant, spruce-fir forest. The canopy of trees was majestic and the lush understory was full of moss and fern-covered rocks. The trail itself was challenging, alternating between rough, rocky terrain and densely covered paths of exposed tree roots. It rained on us early in the hike, and fog filled the forest as we neared the top.

We made it to the summit, which is the highest peak east of the Mississippi River, but the overlook was cloud-covered. I didn’t mind because I was more interested in returning to the trail for our journey back down. Thatch (6) and I usually fall behind Josh and Mays when we hike, but that afternoon I was the lone caboose. I was in no hurry because I was awe-struck by the unique beauty of the forest; I didn’t want the trail to end.

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Last month, my perennials began putting on a show. I suddenly had a sea of yellow swamp sunflowers and orange cosmos towering above a patch of lavender verbena. The orchid-like blooms of my toad lilies were popping open near the delicate, tubular flowers of our summer savory. Orange day lilies started another round of blooms and scarlet sage continued to thrive throughout the flower beds. In the backyard, plumbago and spiderwort displayed purple flowers among the warmer shades of the red pinecone ginger, a coral water lily, ripening satsumas and multi-colored lantana. The sweet scent of the butterfly ginger could be smelled all day while the giant, bell-shaped blooms of the angel’s trumpet provided the most fragrance at night.

Photos of individual blooms impress friends, but a passerby who is used to a well-manicured landscape might consider our yard to be a bit wild. Some shrubs are overgrown, herbs need to be divided and all kinds of weeds are intermingling with our showy flowers.

We are often encouraged to see the big picture in order to gain a fresh perspective on a problem that we face, but taking the opposite approach can be constructive as well. When things feel overwhelming—the divisive politics of our country, global issues that feel out of our control, growing to-do lists that remain unfinished—it can be grounding to cut out all the distractions for a bit.

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The day after I sent our June issue to the printer, we headed to Cheaha State Park for a much needed weekend of camping. As our first getaway since the pandemic hit, we were grateful for perfect weather, a spacious wooded site and, best of all, zero phone service. We ventured out on scenic hikes and cooled off in the crystal clear pools of picturesque waterfalls. We watched the sun set on the mountains and we lounged in our hammocks. For the first time in a long time, the world felt at peace.

It was especially refreshing to not have a reason to pick up our phones, but as we headed home, messages and notifications from the weekend started rolling in. With reluctance, I started reading what we had missed—photos showed friends at protests in various cities and headlines spoke of looting and fires. George Floyd was murdered days before we departed for the mountains and emotions across the country raged while we were disconnected.

My feelings of tranquility faded as I watched the spotlight shining brightly on the racism that exists in our country.

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Eleven years ago this month I was working on the production of my very first issue of Natural Awakenings. Our oldest son Mays was only 8 months old and we were still relatively new to the area, having lived here for less than two years. The Deepwater Horizon oil spill had just occurred and the first article I wrote for the magazine was about the inspiring cleanup efforts of local nonprofits.

Filled with mixed emotions, I write this letter knowing it will be my last as publisher of this magazine. My husband Josh has accepted a new job in the Nashville area and with great excitement, our family will embark on a new life adventure this summer as we relocate inland to Tennessee.

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Savasana (the final resting pose of a yoga class) is my favorite yoga pose. It’s what gets me on my mat every day. I love the physicality of a flowing sequence, a long headstand or an invigorating Kundalini kriya, but my mind and body crave the stillness of savasana most. Although it looks like nap time on the floor, it is a very powerful experience to still the body and quiet the mind as the body integrates the benefits of the physical practice.

While working on our tenth annual Yoga Issue, I spoke to the four teachers featured on this month’s cover about their own practice and the local yoga scene. They too seemed deeply connected to the quieter aspects of a serious yoga practice. Although initially drawn to the physical benefits to heal pain, gain flexibility and build strength, they all wanted to talk most about the mental and spiritual growth they have experienced.

Yoga teaches us that we are all connected. When we recognize that everyone is working through their own journey shaped by a unique set of experiences, we can learn to accept our differences instead of judge them. Not only does this help us move more gracefully through divisive times, it boosts our own mood and brightens our outlook on life.

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Many friends have asked what’s going on with our front yard since we’ve been stuck at home. “Josh is clear cutting it,” I reply (somewhat) jokingly. He started with the 10-foot azaleas that bordered our property— they got cut back to knee height. Then two crepe myrtles, three river birches and a leyland cypress were removed to allow full sun to shine on freshly laid sod.

I cringed through the whole process. I worry about the birds that nested in the azaleas, I miss hanging our hammocks from the shady trees and it pains me to watch the amount of water that is being used for irrigation. We have also lost a lot of privacy and at times I feel exposed even from inside our house. As uncomfortable as it can feel now, I know that eventually these sacrifices will pay off.

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Stop for a minute and think about what your life looked like a year ago. At the end of 2019, Josh and I enjoyed a kid-free night with my brother and brother-in-law in Galveston while my parents kept our kids in Houston. We stayed in a hotel, went out to eat, enjoyed a karaoke bar and wandered the Strand feeling carefree and full of life. After a quiet New Year’s Eve celebration at my parents’ house, we returned to Fairhope for a wonderful start to 2020. In early February, I acknowledged the positive energy in the air by writing “grateful for flow” in my journal. Life seemed effortless as everything seemed to be falling into place both at home and with work.

A month later, that sense of ease disappeared as everything changed in mid-March. On several occasions I’ve considered compiling a list of all the things that made 2020 a year like no other, but I resisted the temptation. While some of the year’s happenings conjure a giggle (remember the Saharan dust cloud named Godzilla?), so many others are tied to immense loss and unrest. Despite the tumultuous times of the last 10 months, I can honestly say that positive memories are what flood my mind most.

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I will always treasure memories from the early weeks of the pandemic when we rarely left home. Both boys made the most of their free time by building mini skate parks in the front yard, making up their own games and creating things out of the cardboard boxes we were getting from online orders. Car parades added delight to homebound birthday celebrations and a game of solitaire or a jigsaw puzzle was almost always on the counter where we gathered. All four of us were home for dinner every single night and for once, life seemed simple.

Last month I started using our family calendar for the first time since March. Having very few events and activities over the previous six months, it wasn’t necessary to compile everyone’s schedules into one easy-to-reference document. With both boys back in school—Mays (11) in-person; Thatch (6) virtual—and soccer schedules picking back up, that family calendar suddenly became a necessity. After having months of blank pages, life felt a tiny bit more familiar as I filled the September days with color-coded events. But just as we started getting busy, things suddenly shut down again—Hurricane Sally was headed our way.

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One of my favorite holiday traditions is eating sushi on Christmas Eve. It started when I was a kid—my mom is Japanese and we’d always gather at my aunt’s house for sushi and a gift exchange before going to the candlelight church service. Now our own kids look forward to going out for sushi after the early Christmas Eve church service each year.

When Josh and I got married, we took time to introduce each other to the rituals we grew up with, deciding together which ones we wanted to make our own. Following his family’s lead, we hang white lights instead of multi-colored, we (after much practice) have perfected his mom’s cheese straw recipe, and on Christmas morning, one person assumes the role of Santa, distributing everyone’s gifts from under the tree to their recipients.

In addition to a sushi dinner, we carried on other traditions of my family’s, like letting the kids make pigs in a blanket while I cook the same holiday eggs that my mom cooked, and playing Mariah Carey’s Christmas album at least once that morning (a ritual I initiated in the ‘90s). Over the years, traditions evolve—since I gave up meat, some of the pigs in a blanket are made vegetarian-friendly, and in addition to watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation at least once (a mainstay of the Montgomery holidays), Josh and I have watched The Family Stone annually since we saw it in the theater in 2005.

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It was a Monday morning and no one in the house wanted to get out of bed. By the time all four of us made it out the door (about 10 minutes behind schedule), I was grateful that everyone had clothes on and lunches in their backpacks. But that sense of gratitude escaped me when my big toe was stabbed by the sharp kickstand of a bike that was in my way. With Thatch (5) by my side, the inappropriate words in my head came out censored in the form of an abstract sound.

That unexpected pain immediately altered my mood. “Why is the bike even here? It’s not even ours!” I said in frustration as I moved it out of our path. And then there was the giant rug that had been delivered to our carport over the weekend by mistake. “I can’t even pick this up by myself, let alone fit it into my tiny car to return it!” I continued ranting as Thatch sat patiently on his bike waiting for me to finish.

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During the month of August, my mantra always seems to be, “When the kids go back to school...” Anything that did not have an immediate deadline was added to the long list of things to do when my kids were no longer at home with me everyday. In addition to chores around the house and work-related projects, lifestyle changes were also added to the list. I would begin to feel like I was making back-to-school resolutions, as if September was the new January. Jumpstarting my dwindling yoga practice usually landed at the top of the list, which conveniently coincided with the September observance of National Yoga Month.

This year, the typical whirlwind of August started picking up speed with Josh’s return to his teaching role full-time, while my September deadlines neared and submissions quickly escalated. One morning early in the month, we had only been up for a matter of minutes when I could already feel my patience shortening, my mind racing. Out of desperation for a different path, I did something that I can’t remember doing since becoming a mom—I dropped everything for yoga. I pulled up my yoga app and, without thinking twice, I began a 21-day yoga practice entitled “Get Strong, Be Calm”. I had to adjust my poses around dogs on my mat, and the kids stomped around the house during savasana, but it was still yoga, and I felt rejuvenated and grounded afterward. As I write this letter, I’m 16 days into the series and I’ve only missed one practice.

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