My drive to work is changing. The huge expanse of glorious, untouched desert that stretched along the straight part of road near my home in Arizona near Phoenix has been ripped apart. The natural desert brush and grass now lie broken and piled into heaps by great big dusty yellow pieces of equipment. The animals whose homes were there have been set scattering in all directions, once again pushed out by human growth.

The city is trenching a road right through this open expanse of desert. I loved this wild island of land for the way it once stretched out and gave space between “civilization” in one area and “civilization” in another, the last bastion of nature left in a concrete and asphalt sea. The road ran several miles north and south, and down the middle of it is a normally dry riverbed that after heavy rains fills with puddles of water at the bottom, reflecting the blue sky and white brightly-edged clouds that swell into torrents as flash floods bring in the life’s blood to this oasis.

You can see tracks of animals along the roadside leading down to the waters edge — coyote, havilina, rabbit and even bird in the soft, red mud. With this new road, people will find their way easier but nature will once again be rerouted to a smaller space further away until we need to replace that space with purchased ground, plants and animals of our choosing. I am disappointed to see this growth; it is inevitable but saddening to see another island of nature gobbled up by the insatiable appetite of human growth.

This morning the clouds pile up on the horizon, looking like a new set of mountain ranges. They have stiff, sharp peaks like properly whipped cream. They are tinged in soft blues, grey lavender and even a bit of pink. The sun is struggling for elevation above the mountains to the east, its golden light attempting to herald in the new day of promise from beyond the mountain range that we will one day be more respectful and value nature more than progress. I love this time in the morning. The pavement before me is deep black from the heavy rains. And for a change, the desert looks clean, not dusty. It still almost sparkles despite its coming total destruction. The air is fresh too and even smells clean. I am quickly taking in deep, huge gulps, hoping I can store it up and remember this time in a few months when I am choked by thick heat, dust and yet more civilization.

This new road that has torn a ragged gash will probably become a short cut for me from an overly congested route I take nearly every day. It will also probably make life easier. And this is life: change; it is good and bad. I am very sad to see this natural tract of land be over run by pavement. But in a year or two I am sure I will forget the splendor that once was and will be decomposing under my tires. I am sure I will eventually use the road to shorten my route despite my initial disgust and dismay at the destruction it caused. Time is atrocity’s best and only friend. Where I am living now was first an endless open desert too, then a sprawling orange grove. Now it is tract housing. This is change. It is good and bad.

Five times a week I teach yoga. In my classes I encourage everyone to pay conscious attention to their own body, mind and spirit and then to choose to act, move and speak from that basis. I emphasise the role of each person’s ‘internal teacher’. I tell them that I can offer suggestions for their yoga practice but only they know how each pose feels for them. Only they know what feels good, what brings balance where balance is needed, and what feels wrong.

I say all these things because I believe them. I believe that each of us has within us all the wisdom we need to make wise choices for ourselves. I believe that if each of us does the work – or play - to find our own unique balance, our own way of being in the world and our own brand of genius, we will all be serving each other in the best way we can.

I believe all this. I dedicate much of my life to teaching practices that can help people find their way to this place of integrity. But sometimes it takes a German backpacker in my garden to really show me what it means.

I’d just returned from teaching one of my yoga classes when I got one of those lessons. My boyfriend was out in the backyard with the two young Germans he had hired to help him get through a huge pile of heavy yard work.

He’d come across the first of the Germans through a mutual friend who had heard that we needed some help putting in a retaining wall. There was a young German backpacker in Wellington who had just qualified as a landscape gardener. He was looking for some work and we were looking for a worker. We got him out to the house and it was immediately apparent that he was perfect for the job. Not only did have great ideas to improve our plans for the wall, he was also obviously enjoying himself so much that when we took a break, he would be off in another corner of the garden finding a tree that needed pruning or a fence that needed repairing.

He mentioned that he was travelling with a friend and that she also needed work. We told him to bring her out as well and the next day they both arrived. As the day went on it became clear that gardening was not her passion. She got through the work, but did so slowly and, unlike her partner in grime, without the attention to detail that only comes from passion.

At the end of the day, as I arrived back from yoga – full of my theories about each person finding and standing in their unique place – I asked my boyfriend whether he was asking them both to come back the next day. I thought maybe he would let the reluctant gardener go. He said they were both invited back, of course, but he would have to find something different for her to do, something that she would love.

I suggested maybe she would like to do my housework for me, but sadly he didn’t think that would be the answer. He was sure that he could find a job in the yard that she would find enjoyable. It was, he said, his only management rule: Find what it is that people love doing and give them more of that to do.

In that one simple statement he showed me what all my theory about supporting people to find their unique place in the world really meant in the cut and thrust of daily life. For my boyfriend it meant letting go of his own ideas about what needed to be done and instead looking to see what would best serve this person who had showed up in his garden. He knew that what served her best would, in the end, also serve him.

So, once again, our garden and the man who tends it are teaching me what it really means to bring my yoga off the mat and out into my world.

I come from a decidedly pro-nap home. My mom, as long as I can remember, has been fond of retreating for a few minutes or hours in the afternoon to “rest her eyes.” Countless Sunday afternoons of my childhood consisted of this: Mass at 12:30, begging Mom and Dad to go out to lunch, maybe going out to lunch or just getting Ruffles chips and Sour Cream ‘n’ Chive dip at the grocery store, feasting, and then everyone would kind of retreat into quiet corners for sleeping. Everyone likes naps, everyone can take them, and nobody has a problem with using any couch or borrowing anyone’s bed to do so. (We don’t get upset about dumb stuff.)

If I had my way, I’d sleep from about midnight to 5 or 6 a.m., and then again from 2 to 4 p.m. I’m worthless in the afternoons anyway — sleepy — especially if my lunch includes even a single carb (unless I combat it with tons of iced tea). Barring just the right chemical composition of my afternoon meal, I’m sort of zombielike until Afternoon Coffee saves the day around 4.

I was a gifted and reliable napper until summer 2007. That summer, I had a copy editing internship at the Indianapolis Star. It was a real sweet gig — especially because I only had one job — but the thing is, I got out of work around 1:30 a.m., then we’d go have a drink at a bar, then I’d drive home at about 3. Or stay up even later and crash at a friend’s house. Which was great for everyone else, because we didn’t have to show up until 4:30 in the afternoon. I, however, am through-and-through a Morning Person, and was physically incapable of sleeping in past 9 a.m. until the eighth week of the 10-week internship. “Fine,” I thought those first few weeks, as I read the entire newspaper and schlepped to the apartment complex’s gym. “I’ll just catch up in the afternoon.” And every afternoon, I’d lie down in the perfectly quiet house and try to sleep. But I was too anxious. I’d worry about everything, or nothing, and toss and turn, and then it would be time to get ready for work. This nap-preventing anxiety carried through much of my 26-month stint in California, sometimes even on weekends, and that was a damn shame, too.

But now I am getting my skills back. I’m taking a two-month hiatus at home. I don’t have a bed, bedroom or closet here, but I do get to use the couch in the basement entertainment room, unless someone calls dibs and has friends over. I also don’t have a job, responsibilities or deadlines, and I receive few calls or e-mails. I do the crossword every morning, spend entire days in sweatpants, and — hand to God — almost never want to do anything but talk to my parents and siblings. The items in my calendar on a recent week were “Monday, lunch with Aunt Sue” and “Friday, haircut.” Even going to a friend’s house feels a bit like a chore. So, just when I convinced myself I could live without, my naps have returned, like a lover from a long voyage at sea. And our reunion is even better than the first time around, because I’m not taking even a 20-minute “rest my eyes” period for granted.

I love food: fancy food, foreign food, even junk food. Over the past few years, I have managed to translate my love of food into a love of cooking. However, as much as I love cakes and cookies and breads, I have not developed a love for baking. Lauran doesn’t understand it. She says that a bachelor’s degree in biochemistry, baking should be easy for me. Just follow the recipe carefully and measure precisely.

I guess she just forgets about all the stories I have told her about my lab disasters. Once when I was teaching AP Chemistry, I botched a demonstration because I boiled packaging material instead of the aromatic compounds that I was supposed to use. I now know that cardboard chips do not have any particularly interesting chemical or physical properties. They certainly smell nothing like wintergreen or citrus fruits.

The problem is that following a list of instructions and carefully measuring exact amounts never really appealed to me, which is probably why I ended up getting my master’s degree in English instead of Biochemistry. I prefer to improvise and experiment. Baking just bores me. Furthermore, baking disasters aren’t nearly as exciting as cooking disasters. I speak from experience.

I have had several baking disasters: bread that didn’t rise, cakes that caved in, frosting that was too hard, cookie bars that never cooked through, to name a few. None of that compares to the time my friend nearly burned down my apartment trying to make chicken fried steak. Now that is a disaster worth remembering. My dog is still traumatized by smoke detectors and always keeps a safe distance when we are cooking (unless we drop something). If you are going to mess something up, shouldn’t the mistake be spectacular?

Baking reminds me too much of this biochemistry lab I took my senior year of college. Every week, we would show up in the morning, place some chemicals in a machine and wait for a graph to print out. The chemicals changed every week (at least that’s what the TA claimed), but the process was always the same. Baking is redundant. The ingredients almost always involve some variation of flour, salt, butter, eggs and sugar. You always have to mix them in the same specific order. You always use the same equipment. (I don’t even attempt baking without the mixer we got as a wedding present.) You stick them in the oven and wait to be disappointed.

However, cooking is always a new experience: braising, broiling, boiling, frying, sautéing, grilling, simmering, stewing, blending, chopping, slicing, dicing. There are an abundance of herbs and spices to choose from: basil, oregano, rosemary, curry, cumin, coriander, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, sage, saffron, cilantro, thyme, parsley, lemongrass, paprika, and of course garlic, plenty of garlic. International cooking creates infinitely more possibilities and room for experimentation. Just last night, we made samosas using Tupperware empanada-makers.

Cooking also requires little precision. I rarely use measuring spoons anymore. I almost always end up substituting ingredients or adding something the recipe didn’t call for. And don’t even get me started on my own cooking disasters. My arm still gets a tinge of soreness when I think about cooking risotto on the stovetop. I exploded a casserole dish once because I thought it was a Dutch oven. Now that is a spectacular mistake.

People often ask me why I now teach English instead of chemistry. Today I am going to teach students how to take notes for a research paper. Tomorrow I am going to help them analyze poems by William Wordsworth and Dylan Thomas. Last week, we studied satire, and next week we study a short story. And literary disasters are the best kind. Of course, check back in with me when I have a stack of papers to grade.