“Are you a dancer?”, she asked. I must have looked puzzled, but responded with a wit: “Sure, I like to dance…occasionally on Saturdays, in a club or at a party”. “Oh”, she smiled. “I see. It’s just that you look like a professional dancer. You seem to be so flexible.” Now that can count as a compliment. I am warming-up on a yoga mat waiting for the class to start, and the middle-aged lady confides that it’s only her third practice. She sounds apologetic, almost ashamed, as she lowers her voice to share that secret with me. I never look at it that way. When I see an overweight person suffering when jog-walking in the evening dark, for instance, I feel happy and proud for them. Sure, they may not beat any world record, but at least they are out there, beating themselves, and all those who have long surrendered to the gravity of the TV couch. Likewise I look at yoga. It doesn’t matter which level you are at, it doesn’t matter which level of class you attend. There is always a possibility for improvement, there is always a gap to bridge towards perfection. What matters above all, is just to be there, just to do it.