My morning routine, as of late, has been to wake up with the sun at seven in the morning. I get out of bed and get dressed, then roll the rug away to make a space for my yoga mat on the hardwood floor. I set a cushion on top of the yoga mat and start by meditating for five minutes. After meditating, I go through about ten minutes of yoga flow. My back has been hurting me lately, so most of the postures are focused on my lower back.

This morning, I achieved a deeper focus in my meditation. When the alarm went off on my phone, I was surprised. That’s how I knew the meditation was deeper. I was enjoying my sense of peace, but I also wanted to begin my yoga practice. So I made a compromise with myself. I took away my cushion and put my hands and knees on the mat, but I kept my eyes closed. My eyes remained closed as I moved between my yoga postures.

By keeping my eyes closed, the focus I had achieved in my meditation transferred to my yoga practice. I felt that I was seeing my body from the inside out. When a vertebrae in my back would pop, it sounded very loud, and I could tell exactly where it was. When I extended my hands to change postures, I had to feel with my fingertips for the edge of the mat. Once I had found it, I was reluctant to move my hands, knowing they were in the right position, and fearing to move them without the aid of my sight.

My thoughts drifted during my yoga practice to what it must be like to be blind. I imagined a blind man with a deep spiritual practice. Maybe he would enter a monastery and live a simple life. In a small space, it would not be so difficult to find your way around without sight. Without the prejudices of society, he might find deep friendships with the other monks at the monastery. He might even achieve a deeper spiritual practice, owing to the very fact that he was without sight, and thus less distracted by worldly appearances.