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I adjust myself in my seat. The wool of the stacked blankets beneath me firm, but comfortable. The lights are off, and the afternoon sun is shining through the deep crimson curtains. A warm light is cast upon the space in which we are all seated.

The doors are open. A warm breeze floats in through the front of the studio, and effortlessly glides out the back.

It’s quiet. The soft murmur of conversation can be heard around me. Snatam Kaur’s voice seems to float around the room on the breeze. It catches my attention now and then. “Wahe Guru,” she whispers, and then continues to float on by.

The curtain is moved, and I can feel the sun directly on my skin. I drink up the warmth like a lizard.

The smell of sandal wood drifts under my nose as the chatter dies down. The last ruffling can be heard. Everyone settles down into their seats. A single Om reverberates through my chest. Rebounds around the room. Fills all my senses.

The sensation takes over all of my brain space. It is so familiar; a favorite sweater that drapes over my body.

I am held. I am safe. I am home.

— Ryann Bortell