slowwww downnnnn ...

It makes good sense at any time, but especially when the mercury soars and humidity levels hit tropical, the best thing to do is slow down.

More accurately, slow the fuck down. 

The girl has been away all week at camp. This was her first year and more importantly, it is my first week without her in the care of myself or a family member. The rational, wise part of my brain knows this is all good and right but let's be honest, the mother bear part of my brain has been all shades of bear-shit crazy.   

Which has turned out to be a good thing. Well, an it's alright thing.  Having time on my hands (all the time it feels like) has taught me that more time is not what I've needed in my life (yet how long have I obsessively believed this?  If I just had more time ... ) but what I've needed is to slow the fuck down and oh-my-god! do less. 

I've come to this conclusion on my own, however I was grateful to hear it repeated in a delightful talk by writer Anne Lamott. ("... the more you make yourself get less done every day, the more glorious and sweet and expansive your life is going to be ...") It's not about getting things done, filling up the resumé, checking off all the boxes, but about being present and fully inhabiting what is right here before me. 

I have had this recurring dream that has frustrated and confused me for some time now. In this dream, I find we (the Husband, Girl and myself) have moved into a new house and yet I don't understand why we had to leave our old house.  Usually the "new" house is a downgrade or in a different town and I am frustrated and angry that the move happened. "I don't want to move!" is usually what I scream in the dream.  But last night I heard myself saying "Why did we move? Our house is perfectly fine and I am happy here."

I woke up with this sentence hanging in the air around me. 

My life is perfectly fine and I am happy here.  Game changing words when the game I've been playing is I've got to figure out who I am suppose to be and what I am meant to be doing with my life.

This week I've been writing letters every day, mostly to my girl at camp but also to friends with whom I crave and enjoy deeper connection. (you know who you are!) I've been reading a fat, heavy novel (Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch) and living off of the roasted veggies from Sunday's farmer's market. The highlight of my week was 5 1/2 sweaty hours at the stables mucking out stalls and moving horses. The 80% humidity meant I was drenched within an hour. We had one rider coming and the horse we needed to ready was covered in dry mud. Rather than brushing him off, he received a shower. When he still wasn't dry after a half hour, we moved him in front of the industrial fan and I stood there with him drying off in the cooling breeze. Happiness is laying my face against the cool back of a beautiful horse, closing my eyes and knowing in my soul that everything is perfectly fine. I am - as is Star, the horse - happy in this delicious moment. 

I have a whole other ramble about the therapeutic benefit of physical labor (truly, I think I may have some sort of solution for the world's woes) and how exhaustion can be a road into contentment. But that is more doing and I am done for this day.

I'm excited to be supporting a slowing down movement and am part of this free offering by Jessica Amos of Stay With Yourself. Each day there will be inspiration and/or practices for staying present, staying in the moment. I have a video offering sharing my practice which may just be the secret to all things. Okay, maybe not ... but it is my very doable/enjoyable/grounding practice that helps me stay connected and present. 

for full details and to sign up click HERE

what is lost ...

Last Saturday ... oh, last Saturday!  Saturdays are busy days for us ... sleeping in means an extra hour of sleep (which I argue is NOT sleeping in ...) and a breakfast pace only a smidge leisurely compared to school days.  I have to rouse Cowgirl to head into town for our Chinese class. It is not her favorite way to spend the morning, but it is what we do.

 

I say we because for years I attended Chinese language class by myself. When Cowgirl was old enough, I started back at book one with her.  I held my head high in those early days having mastered "Hello. My name is Lisa.  What is your name?"  and "I like green. What color do you like?" Not fluent, but rattling off my phone number in Chinese sounds impressive. 

Fast forward a couple of years and I can barely hold my chin above water.  The class transitioned from conversation to reading and writing which causes my brain to cramp. Seriously. I'd swear you could hear gears grinding and pieces of my mind breaking off with a rattling clattering clunk.  And then that hissing sound of an exhausted engine.

I joke (but it is true) that together Cowgirl and I are a B+ student.  Divided, we would be crushed under the 公共汽车 (Gong gong qiche - bus).  The teacher is very kind, generous and patient which makes it all the harder when the verbal grilling begins.  今天天气怎么样？ We startle, looking at each other in panic, Cowgirl hissing at me "You're suppose to help me!" and me snapping back "You should know this!"  We (by which I mean "I") talk a lot about being more kind to each other in Chinese class and about the work of learning and how anything worthwhile is often challenging and requires effort and patience. Yes, Cowgirl's eyes glaze over and I'm sure what she hears is yadda yadda yadda Chinese. 

When the hour and a half class is over, there is an audible gasp of pressure being released.  Usually we head home but this past Saturday I had errands I wanted to run while in town.  So off we went to the Asian market to pick up the rice crackers Cowgirl loves. She gave me grief when I first bought them.  "Hello Kitty crackers?!" She was concerned they might tarnish her image (the logos she prefers are KU Jayhawks and Nike) but her fear of trying another brand that she might not like outweighed her disdain of cute, girlie things. 

Then we got wild. Impulsive.  We bought a new soup bowl (so now we have three! Once for each of us) and a much needed rice cooker to replace the one falling apart. After the market we had one more errand which brought us in the vicinity of the French Bread bakery.  "Let's swing in for a roll!" I gleefully suggested. Cowgirl does not like bread products except for artisan breads. Of course.  So we ducked into the warm and bustling bakery café.  It had begun to snow outside making the bakery that much more inviting, the smells more intoxicating and tempting.  We bought croissants, a baguette and some soup to take home for the Husband who was sick in bed with a man cold. We had to wait for the soup. Standing off to the side, Cowgirl proceeded to eat her entire croissant while I eyeballed a giant cookie.  

We waited. And waited. Usually (I am ashamed to say) I can be impatient waiting. I am ready to be off to the next event. But this day -  with the snow gently falling, the hum of conversation in the café,  the whirl of the bread slicer, and the fragrant smells wafting out from the kitchen - I was content to steep myself in the moment.  And it was a moment. Golden and rich like the croissant my girl wolfed down. A moment that I could sense transmuting into a memory that I would call upon at some later date.  Realizing that, I leaned in to kiss the top of my girl's head and to whisper to her "I love spending time with you."

Then it hit me.  A collision of memory. Past and future sandwiched together. This moment with my girl (linked to so many other similar moments we've created or shared) with memory of moments with my mother.  Other bakeries (a theme there?), other excursions, adventures in suburban travel, meals in special, tucked out-of-the-way places and journeys through museum labyrinths, movies and books and stories experienced and shared together.  It overwhelmed me, the tidal wave of all that memory, of all those moments with my mother, each one a pearl on a long strand looped about my heart. 

When I say I lost my mother, I realize what I mean is I've lost a keeper of memories.  I've lost the person who could confirm details, fill in the gaps. I've lost a companion who could travel with me back through the delight of treasured moments.  With both my parents gone, I've lost the only record to my earliest days, the years before my memory clicked on. 

I am finding my mother in new ways. In a song, in the call of the Blue Jay, in a favorite recipe, a joke, a story, the smell of her perfume, and in moments with my girl.  I know the foundation for my relationship with my daughter is strong and stable as it rests upon the deep bond my mother and I shared.  I know that as much as I may mourn the gradual fading of memories held by myself and my mother, new ones created by me and Cowgirl will flood in to fill the space.  

It isn't that I've lost my mother but that I've lost the beginning of my story. I suppose the beauty is I can continue writing the rest of the tale. It's completely mine now and I honor her by living it fully, with gratitude, with awareness of each sacred moment.   

piecing my self together ...

The challenge in slowing down, is having life tailgating me as I putter along.

I'm in the slow land for goodness sakes!  Ease up will you?!  

Okay, so it is only me tailgating myself with internal dialogue ... why is this taking so long? When are you going to get around to x,y, or z? What are you doing?!

Ah, but I am learning the art of Sacred Listening (or sacred self listening to caught-in-traffic-of-life self) and winching as I hear myself talking smack about about myself which involves a gentle and loving self corrections.

I'm taking the time needed ... 

it's worth and I'm worth the investment ... 

And my new favorite: I'm creating my own life here and I'll do it my way. (Sounds a bit like toddler talk but then again, I may be in a toddler stage of autonomy and self understanding.)

Which reminds me of Cowgirl as a small girl insisting "I do myself" quickly followed by "Help me." And that is pretty wise now that I think about it. 

I'm finding my way. Grief is an interesting terrain. In the beginning it feels impossible to survive the journey: the weight too heavy, the path indiscernible, the body and spirit depleted, uncertain, and rudderless. But day-by-day I pick my way through, I make my way forward.

Or inward? I'm not sure I really care about getting anywhere so much as being at peace with where I am.  In my case, I believe utter exhaustion was needed for total surrender.  I can't say how, but I have handed the reins over to Sorrow and let it go where it needs to go. So far, I am nothing short of amazed by the process. Specifically, how gentle and nourishing it can be.  

In opening fully to my sadness, it seems a host of other guests have slipped in. Gratitude. Celebration. Appreciation. Wonderment. And the most surprising: myself.

My toddler self to be exact. Discovering and delighted by things I did not know I was capable of doing. There are the inner miracles - the sense of my mother within me, knowing and acknowledging what I've longed to share with her. As memory of her physical presence fades, an intimate togetherness seeps in. There are external manifestations that make me shake my head is this me? Baking, sewing, more homey moments amid an already homey life. 

And then the horses. Their solid, earthy presence helping me find my roots. There is nothing quite like a few hours steeped in the smells of manure, leather, and horse to bring me back to the girl I wanted to be, back to life ... back to me. 

I recognize how much my mother informed who I am, but I am allowing myself to see how I contributed to her. Understanding how Cowgirl has made me a better person, I grasp a similar dynamic between myself and my mother. It is no small piece of comfort.

So I assume my place at the head of my own table. I'm tending to her loose ends, the projects left incomplete: a needlepoint stocking, crewel sampler 

And now this crazy quilt. Crazy indeed!  When I was 11 my mother cut out yards and yards of squares for a quilt.  She painstakingly basted and then hand-stitched many squares into triangles, a design I don't believe she truly knew how she would cobble it all together. So she didn't. But she held on to the box of fabric and carted it from home to home until it came to rest in my home.  Now I sort through that box, mixing those pieces with scraps harvested from Cowgirl's first dresses and fabric I've collected over the years. 

I'm not a sewer, but I am taking comfort in this process of piecing the two quilts together, making whole what had been abandoned and outgrown. I'm in no rush. I'm taking the time I need. I'm allowing myself opportunity to enjoy the process, to watch it build into something I have yet to envision.  Something that will comfort and keep my girl warm while she dreams her new world while covered by our collective past.

"Small things such as this have saved me: how much I love my mother—even after all these years. How powerfully I carry her within me. My grief is tremendous but my love is bigger. So is yours. You are not grieving your son’s death because his death was ugly and unfair. You’re grieving it because you loved him truly. The beauty in that is greater than the bitterness of his death." 

- Cheryl Strayed (Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar) 

HeartFull Living an online conversation on living a life devoted to loving begins February 16. This is not a course, it is a gathering where all are invite to share, question and discuss what it means to lean into love.  Is your heart asking to be heard?  

uneasy comfort

This is where I long to be ... this is where I all journeys begin and end ... this is where my deepest work lies ... this is what I strangely resist ...

home

As much as I give it lip-service, it is hard for me to wind down. I hop from space to space, task to task. Without limitations or real time constraints  (other than the obligations of Cowgirl & Moose Dog) I seek something solid to lean into. Usually that means tossing myself into a commitment which then provides me a direction and focus.  Like George Costanza, I recognize I need to do the exact opposite of what compels me ... not overriding intuition, but bypassing reflexive habit to allow myself time to perceive the quiet guidance.

Staying open ... waiting for the miracle to arrive ...  this is challenging when everything in me screams to get up, get a plan together, and get going. This seems to be the online fortune du jour "don't leave before the miracle happens" and my unofficial research (thank you, Google Now) tells me this saying comes from AA. Which seems right as chronic busyness is  certainly a modern addiction and one I am susceptible to caving into. 

So home is where I meet myself. Home is where I can be myself and it is where I face my greatest discomforts with self. When I've peeled away all the distracting babbles, the pressures to live up to some new cultural ideal - the attentive mother, empowered wild woman, transforming light-bearer, inspired & uplifting entrepreneur - I behold what I truly want to be.

Home-maker.  In the fullest sense of the word.  Home as described here. Home as a center of balance within, approached through quiet, solitude, inner conversations, deep listening. I am inspired by this home-lover.  I am preparing to tackle worn-out beliefs about who it is I want and believe myself to be ... revising my story if you will.  Sitting back and digesting this juicy bone:

What would happen if the stories we have been telling only exist because we tell them? (Nissa of Soul Craft, The Stories of Now starts February 1)

I'm beginning by the way I respond to the question: Employer?  I take a breath, make sure I am sitting up straight, gaze directly at the person asking and respond "I work on home; I'm self employed."  Every night, when the Husband comes home and inquires What did you do today? I am going to notice my desire to squirm, to snap, to launch into how many loads of his laundry I did for him (housework is a favor ... one granted out of love ... but a still a favor and not a de facto responsibility) and  instead I will truthfully answer him "I was busy loving life."  It's not a job, but it is a responsibility, a privilege. 

There is so much beauty, there is so much to cherish and enjoy.  Making things difficult, choosing the hard path, that's another threadbare story I'm ready to pitch out. Struggle does not automatically make me more worthy, the prize more valuable.  It's like wearing comfortable shoes:  You cover the same distance but in ease and enjoyment of the total experience and not dwelling on each painful step. 

There's a story that goes like this: An old woman was out on a street searching for a lost needle.  People passing by stopped and offered to help her look for it.  As they joined in on the search, they quickly realized the road was very wide and a needle very small and difficult to find.  Hoping to narrow down the search they asked the old woman "Grandmother, where did you lose it?"  She replied "Inside my house." The people were perplexed. "Why are you looking out here?" She explained to them that there was more light outside to see by. That inside is dark.  She smiled at their confusion. "Don't you do the same?  Why are you searching for bliss in the outside world? Have you lost it there?" 

What I seek is within me.  It's not about answers to questions, it's not about defining my purpose, it's about coming home. Being home. It's about greeting each day as another opportunity to deepen my connection to the love affair that is life ... my life, as it is.  My new mantra it seems is one word: This.

This day ... this meal ... this conversation ... this moment ... this wound ... this healing ... this incredible gift of loving and being loved.

I know, it sounds lovely ... it sounds effortless.  But ... but what? Sitting in the discomfort of being comfortable, contented, happy with the simple things. It's a new character trait I'm trying on. Growing into. It will take time.  Well, that's about all I've got: time and opportunity to keep practicing.

my quiet space

Yesterday, this is how my day began:

A sudden blur of movement across my patio alerted me to his presence. This is the first summer we've hung a hummingbird feeder up.  I had never thought of hummingbirds and Nebraska ... it seems too extreme, too hot, humid, windy, too corn-filled for such seemingly delicate beings.  Of course, the hummingbird is actually a very hardy thing and this ruby-throated fellow will make a 500 mile flight across the Gulf of Mexico to return to his breeding grounds.  My backyard feeder is a fueling up station - an all-you-can-eat nectar buffet bar -  for the hummingbird couple that kept me company throughout the day.

That was yesterday.  Today is a new day.  A very different day.  

A clap of thunder woke the entire family up.  Just as Cowgirl was ready for school, the skies split open with heavy, plopping, splattering rain drops.  It's been raining all morning now.

I am inside with the lights on. Their yellow glow combined with the cannon-blasts of thunder and percussion of falling rain have me in a strange mood.  The house is empty and my day ahead uncertain.  Oh, there are things to do and things I want to do but here I sit at odds with myself.

I feel like I am playing hooky.  While others are at their work, I am busy with ... what?  

At recent potluck held by the Husband's colleagues I was asked "Now that you've retired, does that mean you are lady of leisure?" I'm not sure quitting my University staff job is the same thing as retiring ... I suppose the mug I was given (yes, indeed ... 12 years of service and I got a mug) and the going away luncheon (left-overs from a previous gathering ... style points for sure!) suggested a moving on which is how I myself viewed that career decision.  I don't help my cause by keeping silent, but I was unprepared for this assessment of my situation.

Lady of leisure?  Retiree?

Here is the dilemma: I work harder now than I ever did as someone's employee.  I work harder and reap more satisfaction and fulfillment from my efforts; I feel more engaged, more vital, and connected to what matters to me.  That others don't see or immediately grasp this is ultimately inconsequential but frustrating none-the-less. 

Every day, I feel like I am reinventing myself.  Or rather, reinventing what work looks like and means in my life.  No one else can rubber-stamp my efforts and I alone set the terms and evaluate the outcome.  It is both thrilling and incredibly lonely.

I have to guard my time, watch out for my inner saboteur who dangles distractions and negative self talk in front of me, scaring me temporarily off my path.  Ultimately, my irritation over being pigeonholed as either retiree or worker bee has more to do with my own confusion. The internal chatter tells me I'm either productively engaged or loafing.  I have to return to the reason why I opted to set off on this unmarked trail; to remember I believe the fullness of my life is to be found in this space. Home. Family. Personal work. Creative Expression. Spiritual practice.  Less hustle and more presence. Surrender. Trust. Curiosity. Faith.

I'm into my second cup of coffee ... it's going to be that kind of a day. I am alone because the one I need to converse with, to really get to know, understand and accept is ... yes, myself.

But I do seek out lights of support and encouragement.  Friendly voices like this one and clear-eyed voices sharing deep truths and simple (yet powerful) advice.

You have to take a step. You are not going to mentally or emotionally move toward something until you’ve literally moved. (Karen Maezen Miller)

The rain softened for awhile.  Now it is a steady soaking. It is early afternoon and the dog hasn't been out once.  That would bother me, but it doesn't seem to rattle him.
 

The dark skies have settled into a uniform pale gray.  Even on this gloomy day, the hummingbird returns.  There is nectar waiting after all ... 

I am not alone. I am never alone.  The world waits for me to join in ... Life is arms always open to receive me.  I just have to move into them.

And today ... and elephant wants carving.  Music awaits my ear.  A sleeping dog rests at the edges of my attention, but always by my feet. 

the art of SEEING

Have you ever spent a day when you haven't spoken out loud to another person?  When you finally encounter another human being, do you find speaking initially cumbersome and awkward?

That is what happens to me.  It's as if my verbal "muscles" have weakened due to disuse, but they slowly loosen up.

The same can be said for drawing, or any creative activity.  When someone tells me "I can't draw!" - the emotion in their voice betraying a deep desire to connect to this inherent gift - I point out that any creative expression requires regular use in order to feel comfortable or fluid.  If you haven't been drawing - just like not speaking for some time - when you do attempt to draw (or paint, or write, or sew) you will feel initially wonky and wobbly.

This conversation came up with a dear friend who is strengthening her fearlessness skills by signing up for my Sketch Diary Explorations offering. I love that she is leaning into her edge: aware she is stepping out of her comfort zone but also answering this deep pull towards what feels both exciting and frightening.

And I get it ... this fear of failing at something we deeply desire ... the moves we make to avoid revealing what we believe is an essential lack or flaw.  Studies have found that younger children will respond positively when asked if they are able to and like drawing, but that number decreases steadily as they age. It isn't so much a lack of ability as much as a lack of experience combined with increased self-consciousness.

I know all too well the expectations laid upon me when I declare myself to be an artist.  I still panic when someone asks me to draw something ... I begin to qualify "I'm not that kind of artist" which is to say, I do not strive for exact realism in my work.  But under that explanation is no small amount of discomfort because truly, if one is an artist, that means being able to draw exactly what one sees, right?

But really, what does SEEING involve?  Is it merely the surface appearance of things?  Or might it also include something more abstract and deeply personal?  The essence or meaning of the thing for the beholder?  Am I drawing merely to confirm what I KNOW about a subject?  

When I reach for my sketch diary, I am not seeking to create an exact replica of the scene before me.  If I wanted that, I would grab my camera and take a picture (although the choice of angle, perspective, lighting, cropping all are choices I make which influence the emotional impact of the scene; I still am filtering the view through ME.) What I want to capture is the essence of the moment, the deeper meaning of what is before me and hopefully through the act of slowing down and paying attention, to SEE what I might otherwise overlook.

My preferred method of drawing is known a blind contour drawing which I learned about through the book Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain by Betty Edwards. I confess, I do cheat. What I love about this technique is it forces me to go slow, turn off my mind and stay present for what I see in each moment.  I can always tell in a drawing where I was deeply engaged and really seeing what was before me

and where I sped up and drew what I knew (the opening of the glass is a round shape, but from the angle where I was sitting, it would not appear as a perfect circle)

I have to wonder: how often in my day, my life, do I fail to see what is before me?  How often do I lapse back into what I believe or know, which is to miss out on an opportunity to deepen my understanding or experience of that person, scene, or thing? How often do I filter my life through the narrow and limited lens of my thinking mind and overlook the deeper mysteries and lessons present in each moment? In the offering of this vase of summer flowers or the emotional gift present in the eyes of a donkey or my sleeping dog?

 To SEE something in its fullest being requires, for me, the attitude of a child. It requires curiosity and a willingness to engage heart, mind, eyes, and soul with whatever captures my attention.  To look deeply and see the essence of what is before me is to tap into the sacredness of living and to merge the prosaic with the profound.   (I want to give credit to the artist Katherine Dunn whose book Creative Illustration Workshop along with her amazing online course Capturing the Essence clarified for me  the purpose and the gift of artistic expression in my life.)

It is familiarity with life that makes time speed quickly. When every day is a step in the unknown, as for children, the days are long with gathering of experience ...
- George Gissing

To regularly make time to sketch some aspect of my day is to strengthen the part of me that experiences life as a child: fully immersed in what is before me, a clean slate of experience, and mind open and willing to see, believe - and most importantly - receive.

Some days it is a playful action and other days deep soul medicine.  But always, if I show up and engage, it is a means of valuing myself and my experience.  It is strengthening the voice deep within ... the voice I knew as a young child ... the voice that tells me I belong to this world with all its gifts and delights. 

Even when I fail to see clearly, what I put down is still a record of my journey: the lapses and the triumphs, the quiet moments and the breath-held-in-suspension moments, the struggles and the simple pleasures that add up to a life well lived.

My girl will be joining me in camp this summer.  Consider it to be one massive and creative play date ... we would love the company!  All the details are HERE and beginners are not only welcome, but beginner's mind - a child's mind & heart -  IS the only requirement!   
 

hanging on tightly ...

As  a yogini, I'm suppose to practice non-attachment but seriously ... a 70 degree midwest summer day?  Hell YES I am holding onto this day!  And with less than three weeks until Cowgirl heads back to school (I never will adjust to this calender that has school out before Memorial day and in session before Labor day) we are doing our best to squeeze the most out of each luxurious, spacious, sun-filled, lavender-scented day.

Today we are celebrating ...

Cowgirl passing level four swimming test.  I believe it was her fourth try?  I couldn't pass it - it requires front crawl, back crawl, butterfly and breast strokes among other skills - and my stroke is the old lady not-getting-her-hair-wet breast stroke. I call it froggy swimmin'. In our house, ramen noodles are a very acceptable form of celebration.  Note the sudden and newly embraced use of chopsticks.

Staying on a roll ... we have fruit popsicles prepared and ready for the festivities to continue into the evening.  Nanny McPhee Returns arrived via Netflix and we are set for a girls night in the recliner chairs.

Yes, I am squeezing tightly onto every minute of these blissful days ...

and relishing every single drop of goodness that spills my way.

stasis

It's that time of year when the seasons seem stalled ... Winter hanging on while Spring only hints at her arrival ...

 

A time of season when I too feel suspended ... yearning for warmer days and all that is implied by Spring's activities, and yet ...

 

Feeling resistant to moving, taking action ... all to readily settling  back into the couch cushions, deep sighs, picking up embroidery needle and through slow, repetition motions creating my own sense of time ...

 

Slow, slow, slow ...

 
 inertia threatening ...

Winter's cold still grips my world.  Scurrying back from the mail box, shifting through the day's post, worrying over an unfamiliar hand inking my name on an otherwise plain envelope (no return address, no postmark - who is this?!) ... at the edges of my awareness the call of geese in flight ... instinct or intuition compelling me to pull out of myself and look up ... and I stop, in front of the neighbor's house and stare ... a countless number of geese, bird after bird, v upon v, looped like black embroidered lines across the expanse of sky ... another voice breaks the reverie go get the girl!  and I take off running for the house, shouting out as I come in hurry hurry! and I scoop her up (because it is cold and she is shoeless) and bundle her in my arm and outside ... look up! and we both stare upwards at this miracle of geese, breathless with wonder, the only words appropriate to the moment: wow ... wow ... wow ...

no photo, because i made that choice not to rupture that perfect moment of beingness ...

So I feel the call, feel the pull and yet I know it is not time yet for me to begin.  What? I'm not sure.  A recurring dream from the past 6 months or longer has me in the middle of a move, my husband having made the decision and arrangements to sell our house, pick up, and travel elsewhere.  Always, I am frantic ... upset to realize I agreed to this shift, confused as to how our current home could be so easily toss aside for this unknown future place.  

I have been puzzled by these dreams.  The fact that they are reoccurring tells me they hold significant clues or insights but I have not decoded them.  I think they have something to do with my struggle between restlessness and nesting; my desire to create something with my life, but not at the cost of abandoning that which brings me comfort, security, a sense of place and rest.  The masculine do/make/achieve part of my persona trying to override my inner feminine voice who counsels be/allow/experience.  There is the part of me that relishes the planning, building, creating but there is an equal part that requires play, spontaneity, unfolding and presence.  I think this is what my dreams suggest: not so much being resistant to growth or movement or change, but  a balancing of those energies with home and simple being. 

So here I am, savoring this in-between time, this frozen moment of transition, when the impulse to move tips the scales from being into becoming.  Knowing that soon becoming will ease back into being.  Or perhaps the trick is to hold both at once?  I believe that may be true grace in living.  I'll let you know.

what self care looks like ...

The benefit of offering a course on self care is the constant awareness to practice it!  I am so very grateful I've learned to trust that when an idea comes to me in a flash, I am follow it forward despite the almost immediate ruckus of doubts and obstacles tossed my way by the shadow-loving gremlins of fear and insecurity. Certainly the best course for me to lead is the one I need most in this moment.

I've been in building mode: creating the course, planning some local offerings and new adventures and projects.  It has been invigorating but it also has been exhausting. The shorter days have also taken their toll and in the interest of modeling exquisite self care, I have found myself scaling back, doing less, resting more.  The unexpected core of my self care practice has been slowing down, doing one thing at a time and being mindful as to who, where, or what I am directing my attention towards.  So far, the result has been I am feeling less scattered, more focused and energized. I am finding a reserve of patience, kindness and loving care that sometimes falls by the wayside when I am frazzled or stressed.  I am seeing relationships reinvigorated.  Time with my girl has become more creative and playful despite the fullness of our day and schedules. And - knock on wood - so far our entire family is staying healthy while colds and viruses run through our respective schools/workplaces.  

The joy of slowing down is choosing carefully what best nourishes me in any given moment.  And as this building phase winds down, (well, maybe ...  I have since been invited to contribute to two other projects!) I find myself returning to the practices I had to let rest while I worked elsewhere.  My life feels like an English cottage garden: from a distance a bit random and haphazard, but upon closer inspection there is an order and logic present to its layout.  While one bed rests fallow, a bit of manure heaped upon it for nourishment, another requires weeding while a third may be in full bloom and a fourth, ready to seed.  

 


So this past week I tended to some favorite beds, turning up the soil, getting my hands messy, creating, destroying, preparing.  This is how self care appears in my life.  

 

 

I bow my head in gratitude for this jumbled, sometimes frustrating, always in process and always vibrant existence.

 

I guess I am more like a whirling dervish or a plate-spinner than I care to admit. But I'm in good company. ♥

The drawings are part of a go-at-your-own-pace course called Capturing the Essence by Katherine Dunn of Apifera Farm.  The course is still open and there is plenty of time to enjoy the beautiful lessons which center upon the colorful hooved, webbed and paw-footed residents of the farm.  It has been my sanctuary to visit there, albeit virtually through my laptop screen.