It is the absence of hope, which equals the despair that is the punishment.

Ninety percent of what most yoga teachers do is teach asana practice. While asana discharges stress and so forth, it was never intended to be a standalone practice. The true intent of yoga is personal transformation. What we get out of the privilege of teaching prisoners is the opportunity to focus on our own personal development. You can be of service, and, while helping others transform their lives, you have the deeper opportunity to transform your own. What we teach in prison is how we live our lives.

When I teach a new group of students, I introduce some yoga philosophy, but I don't overload them with information. Just enough so they understand the real tradition behind this ancient practice and that it's not a stretching class. Guys come in and they're a little nervous. I tell them that when they cross the threshold of the door, they're crossing to a different dimension. They're moving from an externally-oriented reality to an internally-oriented one.

I teach that the foundation for our practice is being able to go inward and disconnect from the busyness of our thoughts, that focusing the mind on bodily sensations and breath will ground us in the present moment. Yoga is about realizing who you really are, aside from your persona.

It is the absence of hope, which equals the despair that is the punishment.

The code that most prisoners live by is an extension of the masculine roles they were taught growing up, how they were conditioned about what it means to be a man: you've got to be strong, you've got to be tough, you've got to be in charge.

Yoga class is intimate even just from the standpoint of taking off your socks. Exposing your bare feet can be a big deal. You may be an African American next to a Caucasian or a Latino. But once practice begins and we drop in, separation dissolves.