Six-thirty in the morning and the night is still firmly tucked up against the windows. Behind the glass, behind curtains, on the top floor in a large room with a wooden ceiling and rafters,  a group of women get out of bed and dress in silence. We make our beds, we walk wordlessly to the dining hall, where others are also preparing for their practice in silence. A cup of tea, a piece of fruit. Then we slip out of the hall into the brisk morning, our footsteps crunching along the gravel path that leads to a large white dome, which sits like an enormous egg nestled on the hillside.

The stars look alive, breathing softly before dawn, with awing brilliance. I walk along in the cold morning with my face turned upward. They shine so bright, the hills look black against the sky. I find myself thankful for the silence we all maintain until breakfast (three hours later), as with such full days ahead of us, the rest from interacting is a welcome relief. And beneath the starry cathedral above, it feels sacred.

We make ourselves as comfortable as we can in the large dome, stacking cushions and placing blankets beneath knees and ankles, before the bell rings at seven o’clock and we all close our eyes for half an hour of meditation. The sun has risen by the time we open our eyes again, having faced our own minds and bodies as best we could, and after a quick break we begin two hours of yoga practice. Each day has so far had a theme: shoulders, hip openers, foreword folds, backward bends, or twists. Having gone through most body areas and yoga shapes already, we are all wondering what tomorrow morning’s practice will be.

This yoga retreat was once an olive farm (actually it still is, though its primary purpose has changed) on top of a wide, sweeping hill in southern Spain. Several towns are visible beyond the red and green swathes of crops and fields, and it is about an hour and a half from Sevilla. The view is incredible in every direction.

With three weeks to complete 200 hours of training in order to become certified as yoga teachers, we keep a fairly demanding schedule. After yoga practice, we eat breakfast (usually muesli or oatmeal, fruit, and sometimes eggs from the chickens that live here). Our first (classroom-style) class starts at eleven, until 1:45pm when we eat lunch. Our second class goes from 3:45-6:45pm, and dinner is at seven o’clock. The meals are all vegetarian, many vegan, and it feels fantastic to be eating healthy and to have all meals prepared for us. There would not be time to prepare anything near so delicious or varied as we have had, were we cooking for ourselves. After such a long day, including strenuous practice, yoga philosophy and history, posture alignment, assists and adjustments, and anatomy, we are all exhausted. The evenings go by quickly with homework reading and assignments for the following day, and a bit of socializing—everyone is in the same boat, thank goodness, and even a few days in we provide much support for one another.

I suppose any intensive-style course like this would feel overwhelming, but sometimes it feels like almost too much. At the same time, it has been a relief to just get here and begin digging my hands in, rather than nervously anticipating. Although I do feel sore and achy in the evenings, I am not nearly as wrecked as I thought I would be (yet!), and I have been pleasantly surprised a few times at what I have been able to do, both flexibility and strength increasing under this frequent and vigourous practice regime.

Tonight marks the end of the first week here. Each day has felt like just about double, what with the long hours, the new information, the intense activity… it is taking some getting used to! But two more weeks will probably go by fast enough, so we had better aim to be present—good advice at the best of times, but particularly fitting when so immersed in yoga philosophy.

Well, I survived week one; now I had better get to bed so I have a better chance at surviving tomorrow’s class (there is a rumour floating around that the theme will be cardio).

Namaste.