An hour after my arrival at the ashram near Orleans, in France, we have our first yoga asana session, outdoors on a big wooden deck, ringed by apple and cherry trees in full blossom. I reckon the setting must have something to do with holding in the energy, which, in my first hour, I’ve learnt is called prana.

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I lie down in the corpse pose, relax, and feel the warm sun on my face. Yes, this is energy. I feel good. The routine is the same as back home in Montevideo: pranayama – breathing – sun salutes, leg raises, headstand, shoulder stand, fish, bridge, wheel, sitting forward bend, cobra, lotus, bow, spinal twist, crow, standing forward bend, triangle, a few balancing poses. Plenty of relaxation in between each asana. And at last, after an hour and three-quarters, my favorite: the final relaxation.

I’m ready for this part. I’ve been up for over fourteen hours. And still have four hours before bed-time. I lie with my eyes closed. As the swami’s voice guides us through, I glide, drift, in and out, not quite sleeping but not fully conscious, just very peaceful. The birdsong overpowers the swami’s voice. I can vaguely smell lilac. Pictures of apple and cherry blossom float across my mind. I’m sure I can feel this prana thing. Even if it’s just from the sun.

A gentle voice brings me back. “Now focus on the spot between your eyebrows if you are an intellectual or pragmatic type, and around your heart, if you are an emotional type.”

Well, working it out rationally, logically, I am definitely, obviously, an emotional person. So I search behind my eyelids for some connection to my heart, but all I can see are dark dotty impressionistic designs on my inner screen between my eyebrows. I try to drag myself away to the heart, but a strong force pulls me back each time.

“Focus on that spot. Observe what you see. Do you see any particular colours?”

I concentrate. O.K. I’ll concede. Eyebrows, not heart. Pale yellow. Probably a reflection of the sun. Yes, without a doubt, the sun. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. Bright pink splashes across the insides of my eyelids. I relax my eyes again. Pale yellow. I squeeze them tight again. A flash of vibrant pink. Like the lipstick I had years ago. I can still smell it. Like my favourite bathing suit. Like fuchsia. I relax. Pale yellow again.

Afterwards I ask the swami what pink means. ”Well, pink is associated with anger… ”

I don’t think so. This feeling of complete relaxation, of total abandonment, has nothing to do with anger. Maybe I’m more of a pragmatist, after all. This pink is clearly the reflection of the cherry blossom.