The Yogic Path is Never a Straight Line

One moment I was shaking in a shala, the next, scaling cliffs—Vietnam had plans for me I never saw coming.

December 28th, 2024

Nha Trang, Vietnam

I'd never heard of Nha Trang until Aly reached out. Her message arrived like a whisper through the digital void—a South African yoga teacher who'd made this small Vietnamese coastal town her home seven years ago. She'd been watching my yoga videos online, silently bearing witness to my practice from across the ocean. When she noticed I was in Vietnam, she extended a simple invitation to visit her studio and practice together. That was all I needed—these past eight months of travel have taught me to trust these serendipitous connections, to follow breadcrumbs left by strangers who somehow feel like angels I’ve always known.

Before I knew it, the two of us were upside down on yoga mats in the back room of her house, converted into a yoga shala adorned with batik tapestries and hanging plants that reached toward the sunlight. I guided her through a 30-minute Kriya yoga practice, my voice finding its natural cadence in this unfamiliar space as if I had taught here for years. She reciprocated with a 30-minute Hatha session, her instructions gentle yet precise. We were just two teachers sharing our passion, exchanging notes on healing—two bodies breathing in synchrony, though we had been strangers mere hours before.

I fell in love with Aly immediately—though seven years my senior, she felt like my twin. Our stories mirrored each other with uncanny symmetry: both leaving Westernized countries—me from the concrete canyons of New York City, her from the sprawling neighborhoods of Johannesburg—searching for something more that rationality couldn't name but our hearts could feel. She found it in Nha Trang, and in her presence, so did I.

Though I'm not as settled as she is—still a traveler passing through while she has planted roots—I understand why she loves this place. The fruit alone surpasses anything I've seen in Asia. Nha Trang a Garden of Eden bursting with durian, jackfruit, dragon fruit, passion fruit, mango, and guava. The abundance feels almost symbolic, as if the universe is saying: See how easily you can be nourished here?

When I mentioned this to Aly, a knowing smile crossed her face. "The fruit is not the only thing that makes Nha Trang special," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "There are also many holy sites that you really should visit." My interest was immediately piqued—there's nothing I love more than a grand Christ statue or ancient Hindu temple, these markers of humanity's eternal search for meaning. Sensing my excitement, she generously invited me to visit a Buddhist monastery in the hills the next day.

After a few more conversation and asanas, she prepared for her evening yin class while I wandered her neighborhood. The streets hummed with motorbikes and food vendors calling out their offerings in melodic Vietnamese. Eventually, I found a lagoon where I sat with my legs dangling over the edge, savoring pieces of jackfruit as the sun melted into the horizon, painting the water in strokes of orange and pink.

In that moment of solitude, I wondered: Could I stay in a place like this, as Aly has? Or am I destined to remain untethered, always chasing the next horizon? When the jackfruit disappeared into my belly, I floated away from the beach, answering my own question.

The next morning, we met at the hilltop monastery complex overlooking Nha Trang's shoreline, with its rhythmic waves and persistent winds carrying salt and stories from distant shores. We paid respects to towering Buddha statues, their stone faces serene despite the volatile centuries of human activity they’ve seen. We observed monastics at prayer, their chants rising and falling like the tides below. Finally, we discovered a picturesque gazebo amid a koi pond overlooking the city, where time seemed to hold its breath.

For hours, we discussed yoga's role in our changing world, agreeing that while emotionally-charged political activism has its place, it often overshadows the inner work needed to heal our planet. Words flowed between us without effort, as if we were continuing a conversation started in another lifetime.

Aly shared her struggle choosing between motherhood and continued travels, envying my ability to uproot and reground so readily. I confessed sometimes feeling like a plastic bag in the wind, always wondering if the grass might be greener elsewhere, carrying nothing but what fits in a backpack. When words failed us and when language revealed its limitations, we entered a meditation hall. Facing not the shrine but the ocean 100 feet below, we sat in silence, somehow knowing Buddha would approve, present in nature as in our hearts.

Time dissolved in meditation; it might have been an hour or more. We emerged simultaneously, like swimmers breaking the surface, exchanged silent nods that contained novels of understanding, and wordlessly descended the monastery path before sunset—Aly to meet her friend for dinner, me to walk the beach at dusk, both of us carrying something new we couldn't yet name.

The next day brought another gift: meeting Aly's boyfriend at a rock climbing gym housed in a converted warehouse. The walls loomed before me like vertical puzzles waiting to be solved, colored holds marking possible paths upward. As a first-time climber, I was grateful for Michael's expert directions, fresh from his certification as an instructor. With patient hands, he guided my fingers to tiny crevices, teaching me weight distribution, joint protection, and finger strength techniques. Despite the bruises and scrapes that bloomed on my skin like strange flowers, I was hooked. Each time I fell, the rope caught me; each time I reached the top, a small victory bloomed in my chest

Watching Aly scale the wall, I saw how she brought her yoga practice to climbing—her breathing measured and intentional, her posture fluid yet precise, her mindset focused yet relaxed. Every movement reflected her years of training, a beautiful integration of disciplines. She inspired me to tackle some of the gym's most challenging routes, pushing past the voice that whispered impossible in my ear.

Beyond seeing a future for myself in climbing—another practice to add to my collection—I see a lasting friendship with Aly. Her invitation taught me to trust in strangers' kindness and find beauty in unexpected places. Our paths will cross again—of this I'm certain, the way you can feel a storm approaching before the first drop falls.

I spent just one day in Nha Trang without Aly, choosing instead to explore the city's sacred sites on a self-guided tour. My first stop was a towering marble Buddha, perched on a hill in the city center, gazing down on the bustling streets filled with merchants calling out prices, masseuses kneading tired muscles, and taxi drivers navigating the chaotic dance of traffic.

Next, I visited an ancient Hindu temple complex with intricately carved stone structures—gods and goddesses frozen in eternal dance—surrounded by a pristine royal garden where history whispered through the leaves.

As I wandered through the temple ruins, my brightly colored clothing a stark contrast to the weathered stone, four Vietnamese university students noticed me and waved me over. "Hi. What's your name? Where are you from?" they asked in a cheerful, sing-song tone, their English careful but confident. I introduced myself and asked about their lives. They were four friends from Saigon, studying to become tour guides for the many visitors to Southern Vietnam. They were spending their Christmas break in Nha Trang because one of them was born and raised there, returning to her roots while showing her friends her hometown.

When I mentioned that I was a yoga teacher, their eyes lit up and they immediately asked if I could lead them in a yoga session. Of course, I agreed—it's one of my favorite ways to connect with people, this language of movement that transcends words. We practiced techniques from Kriya yoga, including jumping in place, body tapping, and the breath of joy. Then, we moved into balancing postures like tree pose and twisted big toe stretch. I tested their focus, and they amazed me with their poise. For beginner yogis, they showed an incredible level of grace and skill, whether due to natural ability or perhaps a uniquely Vietnamese quality of patience and presence.

After parting ways with them—another brief but beautiful connection—I found a humble mom-and-pop eatery where I ordered egg drop soup with century eggs. The proprietors beamed as I savored each spoonful, nodding approval at my chopstick technique. Century eggs have become one of my favorite discoveries in Asia. It's fascinating how tradition transforms this simple egg into something even better than when it was fresh—the whites turned translucent black jelly, the yolk a creamy green-gray. That kind of resourcefulness, making something not just edible but delicious through patience and traditional knowledge, feels deeply beautiful to me. Isn't that what I'm trying to do with my own life? I wondered. Transform it into something richer through patience and experience?

The highlight of my solo day, however, was an evening event at Lotus Yoga Studio. Aly had recommended it, though she couldn't join because she was calling her family back in South Africa. I struggle to define the event—it was part singing, part dancing, and part meditation, a practice without a name that seemed to draw from many traditions while belonging to none.

At the yoga shala, I joined a circle of participants seated on cushions arranged on a polished wooden floor. Sitting beside me was the only other foreigner, Simmone from Toronto, one of Aly's best friends. The rest of the circle was composed of locals speaking only Vietnamese, but the event organizer—a woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes that crinkled when she smiled—graciously translated everything for me into English, bridging worlds with her bilingual guidance.

The evening unfolded in five hypnotic segments of half an hour each. Together, we chanted lyrics in English, Vietnamese, Arabic, and Sanskrit, synchronized with flowing, interpretive movements that seemed to write our intentions in the air. Our voices blended so beautifully it felt like we were a trained choir, though we were just ordinary practitioners with open hearts, finding harmony without effort.

I particularly enjoyed the couples' dances, which fostered individual connection within the collective experience. I was struck by how effortlessly everyone maintained eye contact—so different from what I'm used to back home, where gazes often slide away, uncomfortable with such direct acknowledgment of another's presence. Here, people were open, eager for connection, and I matched their energy. We touched hands, synchronized our steps, and locked eyes as we rotated through partners, forming intimate bonds with all 20 beautiful souls in the circle.

Musicians sat at the center, enhancing the chants with guitars and percussion that seemed to find the rhythm of our combined heartbeats. One man played a cajón with breathtaking precision. His hands moved with the deliberate grace of a martial artist and the artistry of a master painter, each tap and slide conjuring sounds that seemed impossible from a simple wooden box. I found myself mesmerized, struggling not to lose focus on my own movements as I watched his hands dance across the instrument.

Another distraction was a stunning Vietnamese girl around my age with an unforgettable sense of style. She wore thick-rimmed glasses that framed eyes bright with intelligence, a cropped bob that accentuated her delicate features, a skintight exercise top, and the longest floral-patterned pants I'd ever seen, flowing around her ankles like garden vines. Her electric blue toenails complemented my sunset orange toes perfectly—a detail I couldn't help but notice as we moved barefoot across the floor. We were drawn to each other like magnets and became dance partners, moving in synchrony as if we'd practiced together for years.

But we didn't exchange many words, preferring to lose ourselves in the music. She danced with reckless abandon while keeping her singing voice introverted and delicate. I mirrored her exaggerated moves, but I let my own voice reverberate freely around the room without overshadowing the others, seeking that perfect balance between expression and harmony.

I was one of only three men in the circle, so I let my baritone voice ground the sopranos, providing the bass notes that anchored their flight. The two hours passed in what felt like 15 minutes, time compressing in that strange way it does when you're fully present. Saying goodbye was bittersweet, like waking from a dream you wish could continue. As I bid farewell to Simmone with promises to stay in touch, I turned to find that my crush had left without saying goodbye—another connection formed and dissolved in the space of an evening, a reminder of travel's ephemeral nature.

This happens often as a solo traveler—I meet someone I feel deeply connected to, but circumstance pulls us apart before we can explore that bond. Left to myself, I daydream about alternate realities where our connection could have grown into something profound, while knowing the brevity was perhaps part of the magic.

Still, I didn't leave empty-handed. That night, I carried the music with me—a music that perfectly aligns with my vision for what I want to create. After seven years in a rock band, I'm ready to make worship music—not tied to any specific dogma, but something universal and transcendent. Music that can unite us, like a mantra sung in endless repetition, resonating even with those who don't speak the language, creating the same openness and connection I felt in that circle.

Tonight's experience left me inspired to organize events like this back in New York. My city may be imperfect—crowded, competitive, sometimes cold—but it's a place where ideas find a home and people find their community. A year from now, I'll look back on this day as the spark that ignited something revolutionary, when I realized that what I've been gathering through my travels isn't just for me but seeds to plant back home.

Perhaps this has been the journey all along—not finding a new place to belong, but discovering how to bring belonging back to where I began. As I walked back to my guesthouse under a canopy of stars, I felt something settle within me—not the certainty of having found my place, but the clarity of knowing what to create with all I've found.

<3

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