{"id":6632,"date":"2026-11-11T15:34:19","date_gmt":"2026-11-11T20:34:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/?p=6632"},"modified":"2026-11-11T15:34:19","modified_gmt":"2026-11-11T20:34:19","slug":"when-the-teacher-is-gone-grief-practice-and-the-light-that-continues","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/culture\/when-the-teacher-is-gone-grief-practice-and-the-light-that-continues\/","title":{"rendered":"When the Teacher Is Gone: Grief, Practice, and the Light That Continues"},"content":{"rendered":"

By Kino MacGregor<\/a><\/p>\n

Imagine yourself out at sea on a journey together with friends, following directions given to you by a trusted seafarer. As you depart from the port, the lighthouse is visible even from a distance. But then a fog sets in, the lighthouse dims and you\u2019re surrounded by opaque clouds that obscure the horizon. There is no light other than endless grey. The last words you heard are to head due north to return. But as the minutes drag on, friends start protesting that the direction is wrong, and your own mind starts doubting. In fact, you are far from the shore. The only way back is to hold steady to the last words received from the lighthouse on the shore: head due north. And so you do, and against all odds, you make it back.<\/p>\n

This is just a story. But perhaps the feeling of the light in the lighthouse going out while we are far from shore is one that connects to how it feels to keep practicing when the teacher is gone.<\/p>\n

The best way to honor a teacher may be to continue following the path they helped us find. When someone who has guided our spiritual life dies, that path can suddenly feel unfamiliar, and voices of doubt may appear out of nowhere to divert us from the path. Yet, the practice remains, the breath is still available, and the mat waits where it always has, even though something fundamental has changed. The person whose presence helped us orient ourselves is no longer there to recognize our effort and guide us into what we have not yet learned to see. The light we relied on has disappeared from the horizon.<\/p>\n

When Pattabhi Jois passed, there was a moment when I felt that same kind of disorientation. But somehow, I kept practicing, and I realized that his light was still there. Years later, the unexpected and untimely loss of Sharath Jois brought another wave of grief, along with the realization that a particular chapter of being a student had ended. And yet, here I am, still practicing, and I feel the light of yoga and everyone who is still practicing. But there is something irreplaceable about sitting before a teacher who has watched your practice unfold over years, someone who remembers how far you have come and knows how much remains to be learned. The light in their eyes, the familiarity of their voice, and the feeling of being held within a shared commitment cannot simply be found again elsewhere, much like the loss of a loved one leaves a hole that cannot easily be filled.<\/p>\n

And yet, the practice continues, and within that continuation is a teaching about love, loss, and the life of a spiritual tradition.<\/p>\n

Grief asks us to discover how a relationship can continue when its familiar form is gone. In practice, this question becomes intimate and immediate. What happens to the teachings when the teacher is no longer physically present? Where does guidance live when we can no longer ask for it in the way we once did? How do we remain students while accepting the responsibility to carry something forward?<\/p>\n

The Practice We Bring to Grief<\/p>\n

There can be an expectation that years of spiritual practice should prepare us so thoroughly for impermanence that loss will somehow hurt less. But understanding intellectually or theoretically that everything changes does not spare the heart from missing someone. A teaching can be familiar for decades before life asks us to receive it with our whole being.<\/p>\n

Daily practice becomes a place where this understanding reveals itself. Some days, grief moves through the body as exhaustion; other days, it appears as agitation, tears, resistance, or an ache that has no clear location. But more often than not, the memory of the teacher continues to provide sustenance and inspiration for the journey. Just because they are no longer physically present does not mean they stop being our teachers. While we might not yet be able to make sense of what has happened, the fact that we get on our mats and keep practicing honors the memory of all we have received.<\/p>\n

The commitment lives in the sincerity of our attention and our willingness to remain in relationship with the path. Trying to reproduce yesterday\u2019s practice at any cost can make it harder to hear what today requires. Over time, practice can give grief somewhere to move. We learn that sorrow can be present while the breath continues, that love can remain even when its expression changes, and that a broken heart can rebuild itself with even more compassion.<\/p>\n

What the Bhagavad G\u012bt\u0101 Says About Returning to Yoga<\/p>\n

Pattabhi Jois often spoke of the attraction to yoga as something that began before this lifetime. The feeling of being drawn to practice, he would say, reflected practice undertaken in another life. This teaching has a clear scriptural foundation in the sixth chapter of the Bhagavad G\u012bt\u0101.<\/p>\n

Arjuna asks what becomes of a person who begins the spiritual path with faith but does not reach its fulfillment. He fears that such a seeker might lose their place in both worldly and spiritual life, becoming like a scattered cloud. Krishna responds with reassurance and then describes circumstances in which the seeker can resume the journey in a subsequent birth. In verse 6.43, he explains that the understanding cultivated in a previous embodiment is regained and that the work will continue.<\/p>\n

\u092a\u0942\u0930\u094d\u0935\u093e\u092d\u094d\u092f\u093e\u0938\u0947\u0928 \u0924\u0947\u0928\u0948\u0935 \u0939\u094d\u0930\u093f\u092f\u0924\u0947 \u0939\u094d\u092f\u0935\u0936\u094b\u093d\u092a\u093f \u0938\u0903 \u0964
\n\u091c\u093f\u091c\u094d\u091e\u093e\u0938\u0941\u0930\u092a\u093f \u092f\u094b\u0917\u0938\u094d\u092f \u0936\u092c\u094d\u0926\u092c\u094d\u0930\u0939\u094d\u092e\u093e\u0924\u093f\u0935\u0930\u094d\u0924\u0924\u0947 \u0965\u096c.\u096a\u096a\u0965<\/p>\n

p\u016brv\u0101bhy\u0101sena tenaiva hriyate hy ava\u015bo \u2019pi sa\u1e25 |
\njij\u00f1\u0101sur api yogasya \u015babda-brahm\u0101tivartate ||<\/p>\n

\u201cBy that very previous practice, one is drawn onward, even involuntarily; even the seeker of yoga goes beyond the Vedic ritual sphere.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bhagavad G\u012bt\u0101 6.44<\/p>\n

The compound p\u016brv\u0101bhy\u0101sa brings together p\u016brva, meaning previous or earlier, and abhy\u0101sa, meaning repeated practice. Within this passage, it refers to spiritual practice from a previous life. Krishna describes an earlier discipline continuing to exert its influence, drawing the seeker toward yoga even before that attraction is fully understood.<\/p>\n

The longing that brings a person to practice may have a history beyond what they consciously remember. A first encounter with yoga can feel strangely familiar, as though something within has recognized a language it once knew. For a reader who remains uncertain about rebirth, the passage can also invite reflection on how deeply practice shapes a life. An act of attention leaves a trace. A moment of restraint can change what happens next. Returning to the breath can gradually alter how we meet difficulty. The work reaches beyond the moment in which it is performed.<\/p>\n

Arjuna\u2019s question touches a fear that many practitioners carry: what if there is not enough time? What if a lifetime of effort leaves us with an unsteady mind, unresolved suffering, and far more questions than answers?<\/p>\n

An unfinished path still has meaning. My teachers always placed spiritual effort within a continuity larger than a single lifetime.<\/p>\n

For asana practice, this offers a way to loosen the anxiety of achievement. So much of contemporary life teaches us to assess our effort through visible results. Even yoga can become entangled in this habit, with postures, recognition, and progress used to measure whether the work has been worthwhile. Yet some of the most meaningful changes are difficult to display. A person becomes more patient with a family member, more honest about a mistake, more able to remain present with someone else\u2019s pain. These changes deserve our recognition because the path is being lived in them.<\/p>\n

A teacher may die before a student feels ready to be on their own. A practice may be interrupted by illness, caregiving, or circumstances beyond our control. An aspiration may remain unfinished for years. Sincere effort has a value larger than the completion we can presently see. It gives us a reason to begin again without demanding a guarantee.<\/p>\n

When Devotion Becomes Responsibility<\/p>\n

While a teacher is alive, it can be easy to locate the center of the tradition in that person. Their presence gathers the community, gives shape to the teaching, and offers a place to bring our uncertainty. After their departure, something is asked of everyone who received their guidance.<\/p>\n

The teachings must become visible in how we live, and we must accept the responsibility to care for the teachings we have received.<\/p>\n

Remembering a teacher\u2019s words carries a commitment to examine and re-examine what those words ask of us. Discipline, humility and compassion shape our experience of the practice and of life. Love does not require us to suspend judgment, and carrying a practice forward includes the responsibility to make its teaching more careful, accountable, and responsive to the people receiving it. To hold steady on a path is an active commitment that is renewed each time we step on the mat. We study, practice, listen, and deepen our understanding. The forms we inherit need the attention of living practitioners if their meaning is to remain available.<\/p>\n

For those who teach, grief can deepen the recognition that knowledge has been entrusted to us for a time. We have an opportunity to help another person find their footing, to offer what experience has made clear, and to remain honest about what we are still learning. The wish to serve grows from remembering how much we ourselves have received.<\/p>\n

The Promise of Returning<\/p>\n

It is said that teachers come back for their students so that the learning can continue. I have carried those words as a promise. Students become teachers who teach the next generation of students who will become teachers. Each loss is not an end but a promise that extends into the future, as the last glow of the sun whispers the promise of a new dawn.<\/p>\n

Whether understood literally or contemplated as an expression of enduring love, it opens a beautiful question: how do our teachers return to us?<\/p>\n

Sometimes a sentence remembered years later becomes useful in a difficulty the teacher never lived to see. Sometimes the patience once extended to us becomes the patience we can finally offer someone else. A student who received encouragement finds the courage to encourage another person. Knowledge travels onward through these encounters, acquiring a living expression in each new relationship. The kindness we received can shape the kindness we offer, and the attention someone gave to our growth can teach us how to attend to the growth of others.<\/p>\n

Still Students, Still Practicing<\/p>\n

The loss of a teacher changes the experience of being a student, but it need not bring studentship to an end. We can continue studying with living teachers, learning from fellow practitioners and students, returning to scripture, and allowing daily life to expose the limits of our understanding. The willingness to learn remains available even as our responsibilities change.<\/p>\n

The teachers are missed, and the practice continues. Devotion can mature into a practice of attention that reaches beyond memory and enters the lives of others. The mat is rolled out again. The breath is taken again. Someone, somewhere, begins for the first time, while someone else returns after years away. Within these ordinary acts, a tradition continues to live.<\/p>\n

Whatever lies beyond this lifetime, there is work for love to do here. We can keep practicing, keep learning, and help those who feel drawn to the path. In doing so, we give the light we received another place to shine. We arrive at the shore after a long journey to find the lighthouse in need of tending, and we keep the fires lit for all those who remain in search of the shore.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

By Kino MacGregor Imagine yourself out at sea on a journey together with friends, following directions given to you by a trusted seafarer. As you depart from the port, the lighthouse is visible even from a distance. But then a fog sets in, the lighthouse dims and you\u2019re surrounded by opaque clouds that obscure the …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":11,"featured_media":6633,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1451],"tags":[38,210,347,15,160,46,68,78,18,8,178,252],"class_list":["post-6632","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-culture","tag-ashtanga","tag-ashtanga-yoga","tag-benefits-of-yoga","tag-insight","tag-kino-macgregor","tag-meditation","tag-omstars","tag-omstarsblog","tag-strength","tag-yoga","tag-yoga-philosophy","tag-yoga-teacher"],"featured_image_src":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/11\/DSC02990.jpeg","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6632","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/11"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6632"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6632\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6635,"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6632\/revisions\/6635"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/6633"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6632"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6632"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/omstars.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6632"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}