Letting the Quiet Collect

On the Saturday between Christmas and New Year's, I am choosing to let the quiet collect. I have taken a staycation during this time, going to see family for the holiday, and am now home with husband and dog, feeling the quiet of the holiday and of Winter.

Just as the stillness of the season deepens, I feel resistance to the quiet, craving distraction, entertainment, task. None of it works, none of it fulfills, and I am left with only a surrendering to the reflective spaces within myself, where - if I'm paying attention - a new energy emerges.

As I sit in this new place I can feel in my body discomfort and a sense of fragility, almost pain. I am called in to feel, and what I feel, in the quiet, are the small sensations of the past alive in my skin and cells and even the air I breathe. I find myself curious: what happens if I rest here?

What I find is that by allowing myself a safe dive into my melancholy, I emerge with a verve for life, like one who taken a long swim in a cold river. When I allow myself to be sad, supported by the beauty of art and words, an alchemy is performed.

It seems quite natural to me, and not false at all, to be contemplating life at this time of year. Whether that is brought by the coming back of the light, or the shift in the number of the year, there is a natural settling of the old, a reflection on what happened and what did not, a remembering, maybe, of what I was expecting or hoping for during this time last year.

For me, I am feeling like someone who has been in the process of a large garden project for quite some time, and is just now seeing fresh beds ready for seeds, hoping that the coming season will bring growth and light weeding, but less moving of Earth.

As I look at the blank earth of my soul garden beds ready for planting, I am waiting for the inspiration to plant, and trying not to rush. Unlike an earth garden, our soul gardens can be unpredictable: seeds we thought were for one thing grow something else entirely, or the seeds we thought were so necessary turn out to not be so at all.  What a soul garden shares completely with those made of physical earth is the necessity of tending. Whether gentle, mindful tending or radical, passionate tending, life thrives on attention.

It has been found that human connection is so basic, so necessary, so essential to our existence that the simple lack of it registers in the human nervous system as violence.  I wonder what this means for our connection with ourselves? What does it do it to us when we disregard and disconnect from our own inner longings, feelings and desires?  And what does it do when we pay attention to them? When we tend them, love them, honor them?

We are so encouraged by our culture to disconnect from the quiet longings, the disquiet, the places that may reveal these essential places of disconnection, the opportunities for healing. And it can be terrifying to go there. I'm hoping that 2019 is the year that many of us find our bravery, that we are able to be afraid of being with ourselves, with our pain, with the pain of others, but that we find the strength to go ahead and do it anyway.

For the Wildewomen

It has been a beautiful, wintry week here in Portland. The sun is shining and the air is cold -- the wind blows right through. But I haven't minded. After a beautiful weekend inside, cozily connecting with an incredible group of women, I feel quite warm.

Monday morning, I took my pup and myself to an island outside of the city, to walk on the beach, connect to the Earth, and be.

The morning had been foggy, even as we were driving out, but then it was clear.  So we played...

And saw the mountain and watched boats go by on the river, and birds fly and perch.

As we walked down the sand as far as we could go, the river and the land grew closer, revealing the intertwined roots of the trees that live there at the edge together: growing, falling, and becoming.

I walked through the roots and branches and found a spot where the land is becoming sand and beach, and the river laps at its edge.

All of it reminding me of the luscious, wild beauty of life's continual becoming.


The word 'Wildewomen' is a riff on the name of one of my favorite songs, "Wildewoman", by Lucius.

40

I turned 40 last Thursday.  40. 4. 0.

The big 40 was big for me, big in love, luxury, surprises, satisfactions, and, of course, ruminations.

What does it mean to become a 40-year old woman? A woman who is no longer in her 30's?

If my celebrations are any indication, it is quite a wonderful thing.  Turning 40 gave all these people who love me (and they do, they really do!) a chance to really show it (and they did, they really did!)  And it was incredible.  Life-changing.

One of my best friends has been pushing me since last year about what I was going to do for my birthday.  I am so grateful to her now because by claiming it and planning it, "it" happened.

And "it" was the simple experience of being around people I love, who support me and make me feel at ease.

And maybe that's what 40 is all about, making those kinds of choices.

So hello 40 and (hmmm... let's see, 1,2,3,4) 5 days! I'm glad to see you. The rest of life awaits.

Coasting

Sometimes life surprises you, and when you think it's going to rain, you end up seeing the moon and stars over the sea...

Or when you least expect it, you make some new friends and are invited to have a fun and satisfying weekend out at the Coast.

Foggy, rainy, no matter. What's shines through is the shared experience of being close, and being glad to be in a big house with a bunch of other folks who also want to be there.

We need each other in this life.  Not just to listen and care, but to challenge, share, and be. The older I get, the more I appreciate the diversity of our shared experience of being human.

No one can argue with certain types of beauty, we all know what Spring feels like...

But we are also all different, and going along in life in our own way, making it easy to forget that we are part of the same tribe.

It's nice to be reminded.

Happy Spring!

Shivertime

Winter came to Portland this week, did it arrive where you are?  For us, it is here, that special movement of inward longing and reflecting that I both love and fear; a movement that involves preparing, evaluating, waiting, hoping.

As it is suddenly (seemingly) dark before 5 pm, and the cold settles in on the ground, I find it takes work to allow the movement that is Winter to permeate my being and do its work.  It asks me to close my eyes and just be...

This asking can be difficult. We long for color and light, things to whisk us away from darker feelings, thoughts, and dreams. But it is only by appreciating our inner depths that we can truly scale the heights. So Winter offers a time to go soul-spelunking, if you will.

I find that the deeper I go, the more I am rewarded by the light that reveals itself to be within the darkness. This is the diamond in the coal: the fiery heart of our own nature, full of light we cannot even begin to comprehend.

As the light leaves and the leaves fall, we see the nature of reality.

Life comes from seemingly nowhere, bursts forth in beauty, blows in the breeze and turns its face to the sun.

When it is time, it turns golden and releases, falling and dancing free before finding rest, and what will be its next beginning.

Winter is for rest and the nurture of what is to come. Winter invites us towards growth and whispers one of nature's great secrets: face the darkness and be rewarded with light.

How can I help? Meeting Tara Stiles & Mike Taylor and Learning Strala

This blog post is a bit different than usual, but some things just make you break the rules.

A few weeks ago, I had the amazing experience of meeting my yoga idol, Tara Stiles, at the beautiful Love Yoga studio in Albany.

I found Tara last Fall, when I was looking to begin practicing at home after getting back into yoga over the past couple of years.  I found her DVD set and then a 7 minute YouTube video and thought, "Who is this casual girl doing yoga in a New York loft like it's no big deal?"

Well, I bought the DVDs, began practicing her sequences via YouTube and was soon hooked.  There was just something about her style that was different, and that made my home practice open into something creative, empowering, and fun.  So, when I had the chance to not only meet but train with her, how could I pass it up?

I have to admit, when I first met Tara, it took me a minute not be starstruck, but not that long because, simply put, she is the real deal.  What a treat, to meet someone you admire and have them look at you with clear eyes, hand all that admiration back, and ask "And how are you?"

Tara is a real person, a really kind, funny, genuine person who has taken her gifts and gives of her knowledge and expertise without expecting or wanting you to become a follower or devotee.  She and Mike have tapped into some truths about 'helping' that are often missed by those of us 'professionals.'

My favorite of these: asking "How can I help?" rather than "What can I prove."

Strala, the style of yoga that they have created in New York City, is a movement based system that seeks to connect each person to themselves.  There is minimal instruction beyond movement and breath guidance; no lectures, insights, or corrections.  Rather there is laughter, encouragement, and fun.  And continued emphasis on being relaxed so you can breathe and move like a wave in the ocean.

Mike and Tara talk about how your own breath should set the pace of the experience, and the result is a class or experience that leaves you feeling refreshed, empowered, strong and smiling. Strala encourages the person moving to not only be responsible for their own experience, but tells them that they are the expert on themselves.

Our medical establishment struggles with this idea, seeking instead to offer expertise and advice.  Strala is a conscious response to this disempowering and fundamentally unsuccessful approach to healing and health.  Strala is a mind-body medicine that guides you into your own body, so that you can listen and act accordingly.

While Tara is a trained ballerina who found her passion in yoga, Mike is trained in medicine and martial arts.  Together they seek to create a style of yoga that heals body and mind through ease in movement and connection to breath and inner self.  I think they're doing quite a good job.  Obviously.

Hopefully I will soon begin my journey towards guiding Strala here in Portland.  I cannot wait to share all of this with others.  It's yoga party time.


Tara has a ton of free or minimal cost videos available on YouTube, full classes via the Strala website, and through her DVD set This Is Yoga ($20).  She and Mike have also just launched a full instruction course for Strala, available via MindBodyGreen.  If you live in Portland and love Strala, let's get in touch!!

Finding Your Inner Rose

A few weeks ago now, I went for a walk in the Portland Rose Garden with a friend. I had had one of those weeks, and walking among the flowers felt like a balm for my heart.

Roses give rise to all kind of metaphor, don't they? They are such a literary tease.

Their beautiful smell, the thorns, the perfect shapes and petals. They are truly a gift to us human earthlings, reminding us of what's important in life, and that thorns are a part of it all.

A rose shows us so much about how to relate to ourselves; about what gives rise to gorgeous blossoms.

The alchemy of care and thorns and weather produces a display that takes your breath away. But to achieve this, we must be able to recognize rose from weed, and this goes for us and our own hearts, too.

As we seek happiness and the expression of our true self, we must patiently look for the rose within, the blossom waiting to unfold. Often it is invisible to us, wintering away, hidden by other plants that can look much easier to tend; or that we have long ago mistaken for a rose.

But with patience, we can find that gorgeous blossom, and once we've found it, we no longer mistake anything else for our own precious rose, unique and perfect and ours alone.

For both the rose and ourselves, summer is a time of full expression, the culmination of a year spent working patiently, hoping for sun.

May you experience the joy of your own inner rose, the part of you that no one else can touch, but that, with care, will always be there for you.

Knocking from the Inside

Love is a verb.

This is a pretty popular saying these days, or idea.  Love is action, love is what is, not what you think.  Love is of the world, as are we, and the world around us is loving us, all the time.  Do you see it?

I feel this the most at the coast. As I've written about before, I am so lucky to live near the beautiful Oregon Coast.  And on a perfect Friday afternoon a couple of weeks ago, K. and I set out for an impromptu trip to Cannon Beach, a small town just West of Portland.

That's Haystack Rock you see in the background, twice.  And this is me... with K.'s photographic whimsy thrown in.

But enough about that.  Let's talk about love.  What is love?  Is there a more important question?

I see and feel love everywhere.  It is life itself.  Often in session I will guide my clients to feel how life is loving them, just by being.  How the energy of life is love, breathing in and out of them, their cells, their very being.  And when you go to the coast, and feel the energy of the waves crashing and the wind and maybe, just maybe, the sun or sunset...

or feel the trail under your feet, even it's a bit muddy...

That's all love is to me.  No need to look for it, no need to seek it.  You find it by surrendering to the moment, by living the life that is yours, by being a creature of the universe.

As the Sufi poet Rumi said many years ago:

I have almost driven myself mad,

wanting to know reasons,

knocking on a door.

It opens.

I have been knocking from the inside.

Get outside!

Our Most Dear and Ancient Friend

The Washington side of the Columbia River Gorge is a favorite place of mine.  It crept up on me when I wasn't looking and became very dear to my heart.  Nowadays, when K. and I are getting read to "go out", we often head to its dry, wind-blown hillsides for a heart-expanding walkabout.

It is a magical place, full of sunshine and long grasses blowing in the breeze.  The Columbia River Gorge is famous for its woods and waterfalls, but we more often than not opt for the bright, dry views of its Northern side.

Today, it is unseasonably warm in Portland, but that weekend Spring was just beginning, the wind blowing its way through our hair and hands as we climbed around buttes and walked through fields of wildflowers, and up and down bright green paths.

Whenever I'm around rock, I have to reach out and touch it, put my hand on its gnarled surface, feel the age of the Earth moving under my fingertips.  And there is something about this place that always feels new and big and grand, like I'm discovering it in that moment.  It is a place that elicits awe.

In the picture below, you can almost see to where Celilo Falls used to be, a Falls that was sacred fishing ground for over 10,000 years, flooded in the 1950's when The Dalles Dam was built. It is also a place dear to my mom, who grew up in The Dalles and remembers watching the Indians fish.

That day, I looked towards Celilo, face in the wind, and thought about how the great rock I was standing on had been there the whole time, housed Native Americans at its base, felt them climbing to where I was now, watched them fish, and eat, and live. And then had watched as their home was destroyed.

I felt sadness as I thought of this, but more than anything I felt a part of our Earth that has seen history come and go, that mourned what was but accepts what is.  A part of our Earth that would be there long after there was a Dam or someone to wonder about it.  And as we descended down, I felt myself understand a little bit more about the Gorge and its magnificent, cleansing wind.

The Green & Gracious Mirror

Mmmm... the first almost Spring days brought me not just one but two walks outside this past weekend...

I love to walk in the cold of late winter.  The fresh green air has a way of surfacing important and overarching themes, while dispersing the mundane and petty.  As I walk, worries shed and creativity and motivation take their place. It is a very strong medicine for me.

Stillness, aliveness, newness, deadness.  It is all there in the Earth just before she awakens to Spring.  And all that is inside each one of us too. Nature invites us to learn from her, and to find our connection back to ourselves through seeing her as a reflection of our own inner world.

The past two winters have gone by quickly for me. I cannot believe that it is almost March, and that summer plans are already being discussed and put on the calendar. K & I tend to hibernate in Winter, we're not snow folks, so I am already dreaming of wildflowers on the hillsides of the Columbia River Gorge, and that cleansing wind.

I saw this quote today:

“He who is outside his door already has the hardest part of his journey behind him.” — Dutch proverb 

There have been very important days in my life, when important events occurred, that began with my simply saying to myself, "Just put on your shoes and go outside."  Which meant I walked...

And looked up....

And saw new things and beautiful things.

May your day bring something fresh and new and true, and may that bring you closer to your self.

Practice for Bringing on the New

If you can go outside...

Put on some walking shoes and your coat and hat and scarf (if appropriate),
Drink a big glass of water
Open your door
Go outside.

Stop.
Look at the sky,
Breathe...

Walk
Look at a tree branch, notice its beauty
Breathe....

Walk
Listen for birdsong, hear the kindred spirit there,
Breathe...

And Walk and Remember
Remember that you are a child of the Earth and that you don't have to earn the right to live this life. Every being alive has the right to just be.  And that includes you.

So walk...
and breathe...

If you can't go outside...

Find a window to look out of,
Look at the sky,
Or a tree branch,
And just be, just watch and breathe.

Fill up with beauty,
Allow yourself to feel light and loved.