Practicing (and Teaching) Online

By Brian Henderson

It would have been completely unimaginable even 30 years ago to think that a network of like-valued individuals, from around North America and even across the seas, would be practicing yoga together, at the same time, in the same virtual Gentle Yogis space, on a daily basis, on the computer. And that those practitioners would be in community with each other, from the safety and comfort of their own homes.

Not long ago, it would have also been unimaginable that anyone would be able to access classes from the Gentle Yogis community whenever the mood struck, now and long into the future, through a library of recorded videos accessible from one’s own computer.

If Patanjali, the codifier of yoga who lived over 2,000 years ago, was magically walking the earth today, would he log in at 7:55 a.m. and practice with us? Stay for Community Time? Contribute some thoughts about what we are reading? Would he tune into the video library for the immersion he missed last Saturday?

We live in times where the pace of change in technology is so dramatic and swift that we hardly can keep up. Some of us, who may have even been born before ballpoint pens were invented, sometimes simply muddle our way into the possibilities of what technology can offer while still trying to figure out all the buttons on the TV remote control.

So what does this technology talk have to do with yoga anyhow?

Well, fundamentally, the Gentle Yogis community—this sangha of practitioners—would simply not exist without it. Without the internet and without an application called Zoom (or one of its competitors), there would have been no way for a community of folks from around North America and even across oceans to get together every morning from the privacy of their own homes and practice and learn in a virtual room.

What a gift. What a lifesaver. What an enrichment to be together.

Together, yes—but together only in some respects.

Together in the sense that, in a livestream class, we are all being guided at the same time, practicing in the same virtual space, abiding by the same guidelines and rhythms of engagement.

But not together at all in some respects—still each in our own homes with the ability to turn the camera and mic off, drink coffee, pause when needed, actually practice or not, and watch or participate as if from behind the curtain if we so desire.

And, if you don’t show up live and instead watch in the video library, the experience is one further step removed from togetherness. Yet, at the same time, you are still being taken care of. Still guided. Still participating in a felt community space—a type of togetherness that would not have been possible not so very long ago.

And it is that paradox—together and not—and the power technology affords us, that is one of the things that fascinates me as both a practitioner and teacher.

For thousands of years, yoga was often practiced alone as a set of behaviours for living and understanding life. Trying to behave ethically, harnessing energy, creating states of awareness of being. Learning these lessons—these practices—was often shared one on one from guru or sage to an individual.

Over time, these teachings spread and evolved. Teachers traveled, practices formalized, and people gathered in spaces dedicated to practice. Eventually, yoga became something done not only individually, but in community.

Fast forward further, and whole environments—ashrams—emerged where yoga was practiced as life was lived: inextricable, moment to moment, fully in community.

Then something radical happened.

In the 1960s yoga, in the West anyhow, began entering people’s homes through public television. For the first time, yoga lessons occurred in one place and across the country at the exact same time, in front of a one-way screen. Yoga with a teacher unable to see or hear you. A teacher teaching to a lens, imagining the student.   It was by appointment, so it happened that the same time, but you had no idea who else was following the teacher with you.  

Today, online teaching has expanded that possibility exponentially. Anytime, anywhere, live or recorded, as long as you have wifi. The mysteries of yoga once shared in a forest, now bouncing from satellites. And now, with artificial intelligence (A.I.), even yoga instruction can be generated without a human teacher present.

Yet for me, as a teacher, what continues to matter is the profoundly human aspect of the exchange: attention, care, presence, and relationship. Instructing in a studio versus online can be a remarkably similar—but also remarkably different—experience.

Whether I am in the same room as you or not, I cannot read your heart or your mind. I can take cues from your body’s movement (or stillness), but even they are limited in what they say to me.

If I invite you to lift your right arm, I can tell whether you are lifting your right arm or your left. But I cannot tell how that feels to you. Or why you might be lifting your left instead of your right. That distance, that inability for me to read minds or hearts, does not fundamentally change whether you are in front of me in person or on a screen.

But seeing you practice does make a difference to my experience as a teacher.

When I am live and in person, I can sense energy. I can “feel the room.” I can observe and hold the space differently, and I can subtly adjust my teaching based on what I am noticing.

That phenomenon shifts online. Even if many people are practicing simultaneously, they are doing so in many rooms, in many places. And if your camera is off—which is a fundamental choice when logging into Zoom—then I may be teaching to a blank square, a background image, or simply to a lens.  For all intents and purposes, could I be A.I. generated?  

So how do I approach that?

Well, it can be tempting to forget about the students, as nutty as that might sound. If you cannot see someone, or can only see a small square of them among many others, the distance between teacher and student increases.

For me as a teacher, that calls for extra vigilance: consistently relying on clear formulas for guiding movement and breath, modeling options, trying to use language that is both clear and inspiring, balancing familiar cues with fresh ones, and keeping my eyes open so that people know my attention is still on them—even if I cannot see them.

In other words, I do not leave the seat of the teacher. It is the same seat, even if the setting is different.   Human connection remains, even if the technology both brings us together and separates us.  

From the other side of the screen, the ability for students to control their own space and experience is profound.

If the choice is between having your camera off because you just rolled out of bed or not coming to practice at all, then I recommend turning the camera off and showing up.

If the choice is to practice yoga from the convenience of your own home, or not practice because you cannot get to a studio, the choice may be obvious.

And yet, there is more.

I have had people share with me that they listen to recordings of yoga nidra meditations I have led online, night after night—that they fall asleep to my voice and are grateful for the meditations.

That, to me, is remarkable.

I am not live-streaming. I am not aware of their choice to listen. Yet my voice is still guiding them through a meaningful yogic experience in the privacy of their own homes. The words recorded long ago are still somehow live and in the moment for the receiver.

Of course, practicing at home also comes with temptations and distractions. In a studio, it would be unacceptable to take a call in the middle of class or wander off for another cup of coffee. At home, those boundaries soften.

Turn off the camera and blow your nose, have a good cry, pet the cat, or take a moment to yourself—and who are you bothering?

When I say the words, “This is your practice; do what is best for you in the moment,” those words carry even greater weight online.

I often guide folks to be aware of their choices during practice.

That is enough.

If you are aware of what you are doing, and it is the right thing for you in the moment, that is yoga as well.

It is not yoga, however, if there is no awareness.

That is true in a studio, online, in a group, guided by a teacher, or practicing on your own. 

The internet and A.I. have changed many things.  But they cannot change what yoga ultimately asks of us: awareness of ourselves, our choices, and this moment.