The Pregnant Pause . . .

I often write with the use of these little friends ' . . . ' - the ellipses. To me, they represent the pregnant pause - the lilting and shifting nature of thoughts as they flow like the tides of the river. And sometimes I see those very same ' . . . ' in my life. The last week or so has felt like that - as I've watched myself slowly move inward - strip down my communications so that only the essentials are in place - come home from work and immerse myself in my grad school studies and studio work - spend my weekends dancing among projects deep in the grace of the creative fire. I haven't wanted to talk about 'what' is happening. I've felt, instead, the silence, the deepening of that pregnant pause, where the smallest of movements echoes through the canyons of my body.

That is what the first rays of spring feel like to me as well. The slow tap, tap, tap of the ice and snow as it melts. That first chirp of the birds, so plaintive and strong. The subtle shift in the smell of the air. And the sun that somehow seems to shine just the slightest bit brighter. All of that - that moment before the buds burst forth and the grass shows itself . . . before birds begin to fly in v formations about our head . . . before the days are so warm that they require shorter sleeves and fewer layers. That, too, is the pregnant pause.

It is very much like that magical moment when you're making soup and you know that you have pulled all of the ingredients together from your recipe and from your wisdom . . . and there is nothing left to do except to let it simmer for hours and fill your house and your senses with that wonderful nourishing smell. And so it becomes that wait . . . that pregnant pause . . . before you can lift the spoon to your mouth to taste the delicious concoction of ingredients that have come together to fill your soul.

In the 108 day practice, there is, a pregnant pause. I remember it from each cycle, though the timing is always slightly different. And here on day 77, I feel that pause . . . pulsating . . . sitting on the cusp of time . . . drifting through the ethers and filling me with a deep silence. It is the luxury of knowing that something brilliant is about to shift . . . big or small . . . suddenly or slowly . . . transformation will occur. Its' appearance a mystery . . . only the echoes of times past teasing me into awareness. It is like that long-awaited first kiss . . . that happened before you ever fully realized just how long you have waited and how deeply you have wanted. And that moment where you are certain that it will never end.

That is the pregnant pause.

Let Go

I consider myself a tried and true connoisseur of what it is to 'let go'. There have been numerous experiences in my life that have required me to uproot, to grieve, to give in to what is, to simply let go . . . with grace, with anger, with love, with full consciousness of the process. Full surrender.

These past few weeks I have been locked in a familiar cycle in my life. One where I sit with a constant question mark regarding a big decision. And this one constant question mark for this one big decision has been reflected in my diet. I gain ground in the deep nurturing of myself, and then I feel myself slide back a few feet. I resolve to be more clean and mindful in my choices, and I find myself binging on sweets. I recommit to movement, only to find that getting out of bed in the morning is becoming more and more of an arduous task. I reframe it. Shift my attention. Inquire and reflect. And still the cycle is present.

This past weekend I was with a group of women that I connect with every month or so. We build a fire together and move into a sweat ritual. Afterwards we share an amazing potluck, and often, many of us spend the night and share breakfast and soulful conversations the next morning. After leaving this space on Sunday evening, I felt myself drawing into myself - luxuriating in the sense of comfort and peace I felt in my body, and noticing that my cravings had subsided and that preparing dinner was a simplistic and grounding affair.

Then Monday came and I was tossed into the work week. It wasn't that all of my sense of grounding and peace had been lost, it was that I recognized my supreme resistance and fear of what the work day requires of me - being attached to my computer for most of the day, putting aside the things I am passionate about until the work day is over, being pushed out of my own natural rhythm, and being exposed to constant interruptions and conversations that grated against my open-hearted nature. By the end of the day, I felt as though I had been completely sizzled by an electrical current, and I had managed to eat my way through a small pile of cookies. I was so tired that I went to bed at 9 PM, and still struggled to get out of bed the next morning. The same thing happened yesterday. With the same result this morning. It was 15 minutes before it was time to leave for work and I was still under the covers resisting the start of my day. It is so rare that I feel this way, that when I do, I recognize it is a flashing red light for me to pay attention to.

And it is the message that is hard to sit with - I no longer am willing to live the fullness of my life at the edges of my day - to schedule in time for my grad school work, creations, coaching, and otherwise as something to fit into two hour time slots before I go to bed. I have been so very thankful for my work of the last two years and the stability it has created in my life, and I have also grown to the ceiling of what is possible. Without a substantial change in my role and responsibilities that meets what it is that I'm here to do in this world, my time here will draw to a close sooner rather than later. 

Sometimes when you hit the same wall over and over again . . . it isn't about 'doing it better' or 'differently'. Sometimes it is that moment when you have to slowly begin to open your heart to your truth, and create the foundation for which to let go. Sometimes it is not you that needs to be uprooted, but rather something in your life that is no longer nourishing you.

Begin it now, as Goethe would say.

Let go, as I would say.

'No'

I have been pondering and practicing lately, the use of the word 'no'. As it relates to my 108 day commitment, the priorities in my life, and my needs. There isn't a word more powerful than this simple two letter word . . . and yet, we are so very hesitant to use it . . . or so overtly dominant with our use of it.

'No' this past week has been wrapped around clarifying what is most important to me in my life - where my dreams and goals lie, and what I am being called to do, speak, let go of. 'No' has led to a different rhythm in my movement. 'No' has carved out more time for my graduate school work. 'No' has helped me to see the friendships that aren't really serving my wholeness. 'No' has even given me permission to eat a cookie.

Did your eyes just come to a screeching halt on that last sentence?

It's true. One of the things that I am learning, is that a strong 'no' equals a strong 'yes'. In other words, if you aren't able to fully say 'no' with all of your being, then you're also not really ever fully saying 'yes' with all of your being. So in weeks past . . . as I've sidled up to the lunch table to look at all of the glorious and yummy treats that the kitchen has prepared for the staff, I've been sitting on the fence with my choices. 'You shouldn't really have that.' (An almost 'no'.) 'You can have that but you'll need to eat really healthily for the rest of the week.' (An almost 'yes'). And then, regardless of which committee voice in my head I go with, I never feel fully satiated with my choice. Because I have never quite made the choice. And therefore never truly felt the strength found within making a distinct choice.

But it's not just about a cookie. That could be so many choices from my entire life.

Except this week, it was about a cookie. So I started there. I have many reasons to want a cookie - I'm a chocolate-lover. I don't keep sweets in the house. The cookies that the kitchen makes are incredible. It's free. Everyone else around me is eating them. It's comforting. And many reasons not to - I don't know what the ingredients are. The sugar content is much higher than what my body truly appreciates. The wheat flour leaves me feeling a bit bloated. Sometimes I feel sleepy after having one. I'm still letting go of the few pounds that I put on in the deep winter. So.Many.Reasons.

After having become more clear in the past few weeks about the root of 'why' I was reaching for certain foods that were not so nurturing for me, I found myself making a different choice. Food is medicine. There is deep wisdom in that. And sometimes, that medicine is a placebo. There is a particular experience in my life right now that I'm working my fingers through - an old and deep pattern that has been showing itself quite regularly. And for many weeks, I was unconsciously tamping it down with treats. In part, because my movement routine had shifted and I wasn't being as active as I had previously been. Thus, one of my tools was not being used well. So I was compensating with food as medicine . . . as a placebo.

The past two weeks, that has slowly changed, and I am in a good rhythm with movement and understanding what my body needs and wants to navigate the uprooting of this patterning, and the transitions and transformation that are coming in growing through it. As a result, I've been much more mindful of the food that I have been eating. Because when I move regularly, I require a completely different set of energy from my food in order to sustain. So when I came to the lunch table this week, and filled my plate high with vegetables, rice, and some protein, I also didn't hesitate to snag a cookie as well. With a wholehearted 'hell YES!'.

How did that change anything? Well, for one, I enjoyed that cookie like it was the first and last cookie I would ever have in my entire life. AND, I also truly and deeply enjoyed the wholesome nature of my lunch as well. I also didn't feel a need to stop at the store on my way to/from work for a treat. My 'no' was much more clearly in place, as was my 'yes'.

What if I could take that same principle and apply it everywhere in my life? If I chose only to engage in activities, opportunities, friendships, and relationships, that came from a place of a strong, 'yes'. And wasn't hesitant to say 'no' fully and deeply when it didn't fit with what would feel and be the best for me, in this moment?

What if you chose to do that as well? How would that change your life?

Permission

How are you?

I'm fine.

How are you?

I'm fine.

We play this game everyday . . . many times over . . . with people that we know and people that we don't. Having worked in the same organization for almost two years, I've started to shift this question.

Tell me something about your day that feels exciting to you.

What feels brilliant in your world?

And after a chuckle, their eyes sparkle. And usually they do have something brilliant or exciting to share.

Why does this matter? Why did I arrive home on a Tuesday night and decide that 'this' was what I needed to write about? Perhaps because I was reflecting on a group conversation that I had recently. We were all sharing how things in our lives were moving along. There was a lot of excitement and 'aha!!!' in the air. And everyone was commenting on how they were being buoyed by the joy and light that they felt coming through as each person shared.

And when it came time for someone else in the group to share, there was hesitance. And the first words out of her mouth were an apology, for 'being a downer'. We fell silent and listened to what was alive for her, and after she had finished, the tone of the conversation changed, as others stepped up to share some of the more tender things that were sitting closer to their heart. The things that lay on that thin line of vulnerability - that reminds us we are human, and that life can have incredibly difficult moments . . . that turn into incredibly difficult days and weeks. You could feel the heart strings of the individuals in this group drawing closer - circling in to nurture those places with each other. It was palpable.

When everyone had finished sharing, I reflected back to them that this too, was an opportunity to be buoyed. Because one brave soul had offered the truth of her emotions - because she had given herself permission to feel something that was authentically hers . . . she had also given each of us permission to do the same. And that permission had woven us together intimately in those few shared moments. There was nothing to apologize for. Nothing to be wrong about. Nothing that was a 'downer'. In fact, in some ways, the depth of that share left us richer and more engaged in the fullness of our hearts. The flavor of life - and of all that we love and long for - had become more robust in its experience.

It had become an opportunity to reflect. And to connect.

Perhaps if our greeting to each other were different . . . if we spent a moment with each other asking for what was real. Willing to open to what was real within ourselves. Perhaps it would turn the world on its axis. Shift our perceptions of isolation. Feed our hungry hearts.

Perhaps.

Water Where You Are

I continue to be humbled and challenged by this 108 day cycle.

I have been keenly aware these past few weeks, that there is a committee in my head that talks regularly about where I want to be, as opposed to where I am. Or points to where I was and asks how I managed to mess up and lose what I had found there. The committee, in this moment, is focusing on how I want to be where I was this summer in terms of muscle tone, energy, and diet. Yet, here I am, in all of my imperfect glory with less muscle tone, less energy, and at times, less than supportive choices within nourishment. I am in what I like to refer to as a 'breaking out of the cocoon' phase. My body has been busy resetting itself, and quite honestly, my life has been in that same process.

The other morning I was able to separate out the voice of the committee from the voice of my heart. And here's what it looked like:

Committee: It's 5 AM. Get up and do your yoga. Otherwise you're going to feel terrible at work today. And then you're going to be flabby and unattractive.

Heart: It's 5 AM. I need to wake up slowly. I don't know if yoga is the best movement for me this morning. I am healthy. What matters is how I feel in my body. And if, right now, I have gained a few extra pounds, it is a sign that something else in my life is out of alignment - that I need ballast . . . or protection. I want to pay attention to that signal from my body. And right now, part of that signal is asking me to move slowly.

Committee: How long are you going to move slowly for? It's been long enough. You have to do yoga. You know that it works. Otherwise you're just going to slide into nothingness and be completely unproductive and useless.

Heart: I need something different this morning. I'm not certain what just yet. But I want to lay here and feel into it.

About an hour later I did pull myself from bed and wandered around my apartment for a few moments before sitting at my altar. Yes, of course I wanted to do yoga - I ache and long for how I feel after an hour's practice. Yet I could feel that something about it just wasn't in alignment for that morning. And after a few moments at my altar, it occurred to me to grab the coconut oil from the bathroom, and to spend some time massaging my feet - something that I used to do quite regularly when I was studying acupuncture and massage therapy. After ten minutes of this, I felt at peace, relaxed, and centered. And when it came time to fix breakfast, I reached for things that were deeply nourishing and balanced. Because I could feel that within my body. Because I was invested in maintaining that feeling. Because I had given myself the space to explore what I need.

I could have lived in the space that my committee was trying to create - the future or the past. Instead I chose to live in the moment. Like a garden - you can't water it in the future. You have to stand in this exact moment, and water the plants where they are now. Seedlings. Sprouts. Or even just dirt. Where ever you are in your practice, in your life, in your thoughts, in your body - give water to the here and now . . . and see what grows in this moment.

The Body As An Altar

The past four days have been filled with expressions of headaches, sore throats, congestion, exhaustion, fever, and chills. I have been complacent, frustrated, bored, restless, and curious about these expressions. Often in my life, I have found that the timing of these types of expressions has much to teach me. Very often, expressions such as these become opportunities to shed what no longer serves me. I think of them as physical detoxifications with roots in my spirit. And so while I search to provide what I need on a physical level to heal, I'm also mindful of what might be alive under the surface.

In the midway point of all of this - two nights ago - I woke up in the early morning hours from a very vivid dream. In this dream I had returned to the weaving studio to pick up my final project. I was excited to see how it looked off the loom and how the colors and patterning would come together as a whole. (In real life I have apprenticed in this weaving studio, and do have a final piece waiting there that I haven't yet seen off the loom.) I walked into the studio and my teacher pointed me to the table where the weaving was to be found. As I walked closer to the table, I became very confused. What was there looked incredible different than what I had woven on the loom. It was smaller in size - perhaps only 3x4ft - and the colors were not bright and fiery - instead they were deep and earthy. When I looked closely at the pattern, I could barely see the patterning as I had known it and woven it - somehow the weave had become much tighter and the patterning I had known sat below the surface, covered over by a different pattern. And then as my eyes moved towards the lower part of the weaving, I saw the image of a white deer. I was perplexed as to how and why it had changed so much. And I examined it with great curiosity. To some degree I was sad because I had so deeply enjoyed the colors and the patterns I had woven. And to some degree I was intrigued at the changes that had taken place and the piece that had transformed itself. I wanted to know more of how it had happened, and what I could do in the future to better understand the transformation, when I would weave another piece. I wanted to know so that I could create with more intention and thoughtfulness. My eyes traveled back to the image of the white deer again, and I realized that even the materials were different from what I had started with. Overall, I could feel the hardiness and earthiness of the piece. It would be durable. It was rich in its tones. It could be passed forward for generations, it had come to me through generations.

When I woke from this dream, I didn't know what to think at first. But as the last few days have unfolded and I have watched my body move through this expressions of imbalance, I have more clarity.

These past few mornings actually - in the space of being sick, I have somehow found my way back to sitting with my altar quietly. I have gone through a few months of feeling fidgety and impatient, and slightly confused as to how 10 minutes suddenly began to seem burdensome. Now, in the space of my body demanding for me to slow down, I sit easily, lavishing in the connection. Feeling my soul in all of its edges and unrefined shapes and opening to the nourishment of that quiet space. This morning I was keenly aware of what I would refer to as the edges of my soul - the space of my deepest truths and knowings of who I am - alive and well - waiting to be given space to come forward. And I was aware of how different that space felt from that of my physical self which was riddled with a fever, sore throat, and tired to the trunk of my body.

Ah! There it was . . . the door opening to my understanding of the dream and of my body's current expression. The physical being that carries our souls through this world - our bodies - our altars. We decorate them with our clothing and haircuts. Shape them with our actions and the foods that we digest. Modify them with tattoos and piercings. And yet, no matter what we do, our physical selves move through the process of transformation inherent in the living - slowly moving towards its return to the earth. Our bodies serve as our altars - carrying our souls through this world. And it is how we attend to these altars that can help us to reach deeply into our soul - our heart - the generations of ancestors that come before us. And sometimes, those altars need to be wiped clean, rearranged, reorganized, to reflect our own shifts in the transformations of bringing the edges of our souls more deeply into immediate action and connection with the world around us. Sometimes it requires our bodies to be worn down to the edges, so that the path has less resistance. Sometimes it is the will of the universe for us to slow down from our modern life, so that our souls have more space and time to be filled, nourished, and to expand in our bodies and in the direction our lives are taking.

As in the dream - what I thought I was creating - was merely the outer layer to something much deeper, older, and wiser. And in the process of the weaving coming off the loom, the elegant patterns that I had created in the bright and fiery colors, receded to reveal something with far more sustenance and body. The altar found in sitting at the loom and weaving, combining shapes, colors, and patterns, was only the practice meant to open the doorway to the soul of the piece. What it was that was really meant to be alive and present in this world. What I was truly here to create and give birth to.

And so I realize as I ride these waves of fevers, headaches, and otherwise, that the food that I place into my body feeds and nourishes on a physical level, but truly is meant to reach into that deepest place within myself - to draw that essence out into the world. So the choices that I make need to match the vibration of that deeper self. Because the food, just as with the things that sit on my altar in real life, is the offering. The offering to the altar of my body. The offering to the divine spirit within and without.

To Shed What No Longer Serves Me

To be better, to do better, to know better, to be more, to have more, to never make a mistake, to be everything to everyone. To fix yourself.

Reframe.

To be as you are. To do your best in any given moment. To learn from your experiences. To know that all you are is enough. To know that you have everything you need in this moment. To be curious when things turn out differently than what you had hoped. To know that nourishing yourself is necessary. To shed what no longer serves you.

Healing is not fixing something that is broken. Choosing to commit to a practice for 108 days is not about making yourself or your life better. It is about learning the gentle art of loving yourself, and shedding that which no longer serves you. It is the shedding process that allows you to let go of what is not integral to the core of who you are in this world. It is a process that allows your spirit to shine through to the world even more deeply. It is a process of liberation. It is an audacious act.

That is what I have been reminded of as I have cycling through my commitment again. Exploring the curiosity of why I am struggling to look in the mirror. While some of it, I have recognized, is an energetic imprint that comes hand in hand with choosing certain foods, I am recognizing that it is also the framing of the moment. If I look in the mirror and feel as though I am exploring food as medicine as a way to 'fix' myself, what I see is where my body is not perfect. Where I need to be better. On every level. But if I look in the mirror and reframe this process as shedding what no longer serves me - choosing foods that engage that shedding process, I recognize that my body is constantly in a state of flux and transformation, that I am empowered to support in each moment, and in each choice.

It is the mindset . . . or the framing that needs to be shed. Like the snake of the skin. So that I can arrive in this world in each moment, fully. Extracting every last bit of juice from each moment, and allowing my flesh and soul to sink into my life in this exact moment. Here in this moment, is what I have. Here in this moment, I choose to reframe. To shed what no longer serves me.