I want to stand in front of
the cream + sugar bar
at the café
as long as I want,
stirring and staring —
watching the swirling liquid
dance however it wants to —
as if me standing, stirring,
and staring
was my own dance.
The man behind me
clears his throat and I remember
that not everyone wants to dance
with their coffee
in a café.
So I smile and slide left
and keep stirring.
Most days I wonder how alone I am in the feeling that often I’m not sure I can trust myself in relationships. Relationships of any kind, even my relationship with myself.
For nearly a decade I’ve been intentional about falling back into myself, believing that Me is in there somewhere — if only I can allow the obstacles and barriers fall away. I’ve broken cycles handed down to me from the women in my family. I’ve sat with compassion toward my younger, less aware self and forgiven her for what she couldn’t have known. I’ve grieved what feels like lost years of potential life. I’ve offered myself new narratives to replace the phrase “lost years.” I’ve released trauma from my body with the help of food, Yoga, meditation, and other nourishing daily routines and choices. I’ve surrounded myself with people who love and see me. I’ve said no to people and things that I need to say no to, without putting them out of my heart.
Yet even in my safest, most loving, and cherished relationships, I feel prevailed upon / coerced by / sweet-talked by my old ways.
I feel insecure and afraid. I wonder when the people I love most are going to leave. I neglect important conversations because I’m afraid I’ll crumble if others disagree or push back. I yield to the self-minimizing narratives told to me that still linger in my head. I withdraw. I disconnect. I run away, afraid. Simply put: I have developed habits of forgetting to trust mySelf and the infinite potency of unconditional Love.
All of this behavior has been reinforced over several years and feels very much a part of me, of who I am. But simply put: These things are not Me.
Maybe one of the first things we can do to become more in touch with our true nature (and therefore trust ourselves more) is slow everything down – take moments to connect with our breath, to become more intimate with the rhythm of our pulse, and to just sit in the Observer’s seat – watching things pass through us instead of letting them become part of our identity. In this kind of intentional space, some things will get quieter and calmer and different things will start to arise. Don’t be afraid.
What we notice may be wordless at first. Perhaps we will witness what the body knows, or begin to see colors in our mind's eye, or maybe we will recall some old memory. These thoughts and feelings have become attached to certain kinds of experiences and this is what anchors us to our emotional identities, which we have come to believe is the Self.
Securing time to pay attention in this sacred space where we sit as the Observer is the first step to disentangling some of our more complicated feelings from the events that occur as well as how we perceive ourselves in the world.
No matter how graceful or clumsy it feels, time and energy spent disentangling the old things from the now things so that the possible things can emerge are valuable. This is inner revolution. The first step to experiencing such a transformational force is believing the process is viable.
###
What is one thing you can begin to practice every day that helps you slow down and allow yourself to be an objective observer of the beautiful You that you are? How will you relearn to trust yourself? Is it paying attention to just your breath for 5 minutes a day? Is it to write yourself a love letter? Is it to take a walk and pay attention to how the birds play and bask in the sun and never seem to ask, “Am I worthy of this sunshine?” Is it creating a mantra to repeat to yourself or maybe even pin it up on your wall to remind yourself of who you really are?
Love and trust feed and nourish each other. Offer yourself both. You are worthy.
One year ago today, I biked 24 miles, putting together the small number of incredibly vague clues I had, determined to find the exact spot where Carmen was last alive. And I found it. I had so little to go on. I listened to what I’d heard, went into his mind, and thought like him. I dipped into the deep waters of him and connected with what I knew. And I found it.
On the way, I collected a small bunch of wild goldenrod as I rode. Every time I’d see some, I’d pull over, pick one or two, and put it in my bike basket, then keep riding. When I had enough to suit my desires, I tied it all together with a piece of long, sturdy grass.
When I jumped on my bike that day, one year ago, I hadn’t ridden my bike more than a mile for a couple of years, I think. Toward the end of that 24-mile ride that day, I thought my legs would fall off. I could barely keep pedaling. But something inside of me kept pushing and burning and moving me – something spiritual and unexplainable. Something born of Love and mystery and passion and connection, and something stemming from a need as deep as wanting to know someone is out there looking for you.
When I did find the spot, there was a deep sense of both connection and loss. Knowing him, knowing Love, knowing grief, knowing I had found what I was looking for while also knowing I never wanted to be looking for such a thing. I sat there silently for a long time. I remember the sound of crickets, the wind blowing the trees, and gently flowing water. I remember the feeling of my hot tears making a silent path down my face. I was sitting with him again. Some part of him was still there, maybe waiting for me to come. I could feel him. And I knew that’s why I’d ridden there. I needed to feel his closeness. And nothing could have stopped me that day from finding that spot, finding that moment with him.
One year isn’t a very long time. Well, it is and it isn’t. As another grieving friend of mine said recently, time splits in two when these things happen. Everything is ripped in half, into “before” and “after.” All of my “before Carmen” days have a certain texture and hue to them. Knowing him made my life more rich and full of illumination. The “after Carmen” days have taken me to a certain kind of dark underworld where fire is changing me. It is painful. It is purifying (I trust). It is transformative.
The loss of Carmen’s physical form has made me primarily realize two things: 1) When you open your heart to someone and they go away, it is an absolutely terrifying thought to open your heart again, and it feels much safer to hide and keep it all closed up; and 2) It’s important and challenging to remember that opening your heart is how you found and connected with this person in the first place, so even in the midst of the unbearable burning sensation you feel inside that tells you to close up, opening yourself to Love and be Loved is why we are here.
I know death. I am intimately familiar with grief in a way I never had been. But Carmen is the first person who has truly taught me that death cannot stop Love. If Love isn’t unstoppable, unconditional, all-powerful, how could we possibly love someone even after they die?
Many days, I am a woman in a sorrowful state. But that’s not all I am. I have a lot of emotions and I choose to feel them. Sometimes they feel like trying to move through the thickest mud or trying to see clearly through a hazy liquid. But being able to feel my emotions, observe them with a sacred kind of honor, while not feeling obliged to let them take me for a ride … this feels like why I’m here.
It is the most powerful, yet-unknown-to-me, unpredictable emotions that teach me that I have a capacity for all things in the universe to exist inside of me. I value honesty and it is important to me that I relate honestly with my emotions. This honesty scares me, but it makes it more natural for me to be able to go into the darker places of myself and not feel like I have to stay there. As Rilke once wrote: No feeling is final.
So as I sit here in Carmen’s boxer shorts and write this, I remember (and hopefully remind you of) something very real: When we stay open; when we let Love be our primary animator, motivator, and meaning-giver; we flow. Openness allows the currents to come and go as they are meant to, and we can be alive. Even when it hurts, Love is the most expansive force out there. So let’s Love.
flower work
is
not easy.
remaining
soft in fire
takes
time.
(nayyirah waheed)
One of the things I’ve noticed that an increasingly digitized world has changed for us is that we “like” a lot of people’s images, quotes, thoughts, announcements, etc. that they put in their online posts, but how often do we “like” people in their physical presence or in other concrete (non-digital) ways? Even with those friends with whom we share our deeper, more well-considered thoughts, feelings, observations, and reflections, how often do we tell them we enjoy them and what they’re sharing? It’s so easy to click that little heart on social media because it doesn’t really require any vulnerability on our part. We’re not even looking the person in the eyes. It is a little to no risk situation to express this small gesture in the online sphere. What makes it harder to do this in real life?
I recently read a book that was entirely made up of interviews with the author’s closest friend who was in the last days of his life. He had lived an enormously rich life — bursting with robust unconditional Love practices, awakened perceptions, spiritual intelligence, and heart. As is natural in the last days of one’s life, he was uniquely reflective. At a certain point, their time talking naturally guided him to reminisce about people that were special to him. He told a story of one of their mutual friends with great warmth and said, “She simply sparkled.” The author responds to this by writing, “I wish she could have heard him say that about her. He would have never told her that to her face. But it was so loving and warm the way he said it. She would have loved it.”
And this made me think: Why do we wait? Why don’t we tell the people we like or love that we like or love them? Why don’t we offer words of appreciation or enjoyment to those we appreciate and enjoy? What are we afraid of?
We sometimes experience regret (which I like to call, “delayed insight”) when we lose someone — to death or another way — and we haven’t told them all the things in our hearts that we wished we would have. We put off expressing these things, perhaps imagining that we can do it later. But sometimes we lose the chances we have and we are left reflecting them to others or just to ourselves.
But I would like to spark a tiny, personal revolution: Don’t wait. Tell people in small, heartfelt ways that you appreciate them. You can write a letter, you can share in person when it feels right. Offer a compliment. Share a tender observation. Do a small, kind act for the person. With warm eyes, smile. Make eye contact, for that matter! You don’t need to overthink what you say or do because then you may not do it. Just go for it.
Go ahead and like someone in real life. May we keep discovering what is possible.
I’m sitting in the cafe at which I am a regular these days. When I asked the woman who took my order how she is doing, tears came to her eyes. She told me that she just found out one of her family members is in the hospital with a brain bleed. “He’s young. They just had a baby.” Long pause. “I can’t talk about it. I just have to keep doing the next thing in front of me.”
I had immeasurable compassion for her. I longed for her freedom to cry, to be held, to be able to fall back into herself and let go.
I sat down at my table and thought about her words some more. “I just have to keep doing the next thing in front of me.” I find great wisdom within these words.
Life is beautiful and strange. All-day long we are invited to engage in the fluctuation of juxtaposed extremes. We execute mundane tasks. We search our hearts and souls. We reflect. We long for things. We drink in what is around and inside us. We put one foot in front of the other. We zone out and dip into imagination. We laugh. We cry. We feel nothing. We feel everything. We think. We try to know. We don’t know. We harden. We soften. We hold on. We let go.
These extremes that we face are not punishments or enemies, they are the sweet invitations of our humanness. Summoned to trust our most original relationship to openness, every point in time becomes an opportunity to freely expand and learn what we are capable of. Instead of our moments becoming unnecessary battles between “this” or “that,” we have infinite chances to become more practiced at being fluid and free. As we become more fully conscious of our vast nature, we can behold our unfurling selves and exist gracefully in the center of all the tensions of what is possible.
I am grateful for so many occasions to bow down to the present moment and all of its unique wonders. I think maybe this is why we are here, all of us.
# # #
To my friend who inspired this reflection: I send to you and your family abundant Love and compassion. Even in this challenging moment, may a new expansiveness be revealed to you no matter what the journey looks like. May you find room for the totality of your fluctuations and capabilities, newly perceived in this space.
Your experience of me will expire.
I will not expire.
Your yearnings will shift
and to you,
I will disappear.
My presence,
my hereness,
my nowness—
it’s already
dwindling
as
I
write
these
words.
I am
okay
to
wane
(according to your eyes)
like
the
Moon.
But I am still here,
forever majestic,
reflecting light
with all my Love,
fortitude, and intensity.
A few days ago I learned of today’s blood supermoon eclipse and a small sparkle traveled through me. I got excited. I love the moon. I love the full moon. I love the supermoon. I love eclipses. This was all of that in one beautiful feat. As I read more space-related articles about this particular moon and its characteristics, it became clear to me: “We need to burn things. We need to let go of things tonight.” And so we did.
Every morning for the last three months, I’ve been writing down on small shreds of paper the messages in my head, the aches of my heart, the dreams that wake me against my will, the wounds that have not healed. I write them down, then I put the pieces of paper in a sturdy old glass jam jar. I keep them there until I can’t stand looking at them anymore. Then I rip them into tiny pieces, pour water into the jar, and when it seems like the water is becoming stronger than the paper, I flush them down the toilet. While I watch them disappear, I tend to quietly whisper, “I am done with you now. I release you.”
It’s a powerful practice.
The moon amazes me. One of the reasons it amazes me is that it receives its light from the Sun (it has no light of its own), and then it immediately reflects that light to us. The moon is feminine for a reason; it is strong, receptive, and giving – all without effort.
Tonight I wanted to be more in rhythm with the moon. I didn’t want to overthink it or doubt my instincts.
So I told my two daughters that I had an idea for tonight. I told them about the moon and the particularly special event it was offering us today, and that after dinner I was going to write down on paper all the things I am ready to let go of – and I hoped they would join me.
They did want to join me. And we invited a friend whose heart needed this, too.
– – –
Dinner finished. I put on Chuck Johnson’s album Balsams. Our friend arrived.
I shared the general types of things we all might write down on our pieces of paper.
Everyone acquired at least one piece of paper.
We wrote things for a while.
Everyone gradually put down their pens and papers, and quiet but meaningful chatter commenced.
Then we all walked outside.
And we burned things.
No one took photos. We just watched together and bore witness to each other’s release.
– – –
I, personally, carried into this practice my freshly-written papers, plus my pretty-full jar of papers that had stacked up this week in my morning practice that I hadn’t felt ready to flush yet.
We all burned our new papers. I saved my jar for last. Everyone watched the tiny fires eat the ink and paper. Occasionally there was a small “wow” or “mmm,” as quiet as a breath. It was poignant.
My jar of papers took maybe 7 minutes to burn fully. I looked up at least once during this time and said out loud, “It feels appropriate that it would take this long.”
We all watched wiggling sparks tunnel their way through my words and all the space in between. Some ash rose to the skies.
As the paper turned black, I felt another veil lift. The very super moon and I collaborated in the direction of further freedom and spaciousness.
Then we all went inside. I asked if I could play them a song so we all sat on the floor and listened to “She’s a Rose” by Novaa. We cried some.
Then we ate pancakes. ❤️
One of my favorite illustrations from one of my favorite books, “A Hole is to Dig” by Maurice Sendak
Only as I sat down to write this post did this Ursula K. Le Guin quote find me. "What goes too long unchanged destroys itself."
Every day is a new opportunity and invitation to reach for change so that we are not destroyed. These are worthy practices that cleanse and fortify our Souls. This is our very worthy work.
Thank you, Moon, for leading the way today. 🌘
