Magical Yoga – Yoga Studio, Wolfeboro, New Hampshire

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Yoga Studio, Wolfeboro, New Hampshire

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Yoga – Healing – Flow

A traveling studio founded by Brittany Boles, Magical Yoga inspires people to discover the magnitude of human potential on & off the mat.

yoga means union: body-breath-mind-spirit

more than movement

a new website for all of Brittany's offerings

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Upcoming Events

Restorative Yoga May 22, 2019 at 4:00 pm – 5:00 pm Yoga4Life
Restorative Yoga May 29, 2019 at 4:00 pm – 5:00 pm Yoga4Life

Follow @MagicalYogi

🌳 Bright green sunshiney new beginnings are a cause for celebration around here ☀️

✨Spirituality for people who believe in magic✨ • “Finding Starlight” is the TRUE story of my life, told through a past-life regression session, in a very magical way. • Please support my endeavor to self-publish! • Link to indiegogo campaign in bio 😘 • #indiegogo #selfpublish #qhht #pastliferegression #authorsofig #spirituality #fantasy #lulupublishing #wakingup #transforming #neilgaimon

“Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled— to cast aside the weight of facts and maybe even to float a little above this difficult world. I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery. I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing— that the light is everything—that it is more than the sum of each flawed blossom rising and falling. And I do.” - Mary Oliver .... and I do, too.

My face after another rejection rolls in ... last night, I awoke before midnight, called to deal with my feelings of hurt and unworthiness. This is the story of an unplanned ritual demanded by the goddesses themselves: Yesterday on the equinox, under the full Aries moon, I awoke from a nightmare just before midnight. I knew it would come ... I took precautions, like bandaids, before I fell asleep. My fear, anger, and hurt had been coming for me for weeks ... ever since that last rejection rolled in, I knew. I had let my life’s work turn into my ego, and it housed my hopes and worthiness like a prison as it sat mostly unread in a file no one could see. Writing it was cathartic, passionate, purposeful. Waiting for it to “become” has been torture. And I am the torturer. With each rejection, I felt my conditioning spark into a negative self talk smolder. Quiet, at first, and a bit philosophical, like a new understanding of poverty mentality or the sensation of lack. Then it grew louder, and began to feel like grief in my chest. And, still, I fed the fire. “It’s garbage,” I decided. A friend shook free these embers, combed them out of me like a healer who sees images of shadows upon the wall of a cave. He said if I refused to do this work, to look at my emotions, they would come for me harder and harder ... and I knew. I felt it rise up, there at the cafe, and I knew what I had to do. But I did not do that. So I awoke more terrified and tired than I have been in many, many years. And there was still time to do the work, to give it up to winter and allow spring to flow - the Aries moon demanded it of me. “Get up,” I heard, more like a tug than a whisper. “I can’t move,” I begged, more like a whisper than a sob. “Please, just let me sleep.” “Do it now.” Through the paralysis of near-midnight nightmare fear, I crawled. I lit my altar and kneeled before it. The flames were unsteady and insistent, demanding more of me. “You don’t remember what it’s like to be down here, to be human,” I began as the tears flowed down my face. I poured out my anger at the goddesses, — [continued below]

“Whatever else my life is with its poems and its music and its glass cities, it is also this dazzling darkness coming down the mountain, breathing and tasting; all day I think of her— her white teeth, her wordlessness, her perfect love.” -Mary Oliver, “Spring”

These are the things that we do. Victims of trauma, orphans, People Who Have Lost - call it what we will, the hungry fear shadow lives like a speck inside each bubble of joy. She writes it best, my little sister, that story of our mother and the tiny valentine hearts. I know that’s why she sent the sparkly little flowers: because, in case she dies, we’ll find these reminders of her love scattered in unexpected places, like glitter-memories, for years to come. I save voicemails just so I can listen to the voices of the people I love .... in case they die. I save cards so I can always remember the love, see their writing, hold them close. “Poverty mentality” is about more than money. It’s a conditioning to disappointment. This mindset is really a HEARTset born of repeated, soul crushing disappointments big and small. Big, like when your mom breaks outta rehab to drunkenly burn down your apartment on Easter. Small, like when you can’t go to the dance because nobody is sober enough to bring you. These pile up in our hearts like bricks, and, after a while, a wall forms to protect us - not from pain - but from believing. Poverty mentality isn’t about money. It’s about steeling ourselves from the seemingly inevitable pain of loss. Each tiny flower is sparkling here in front of me now, today, and I know that my sister’s eyes are sparkling the same. I believe in us. But ..... I’m still not throwing them away.

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