Home

  • New Morning

    First, the joy of a new morning.

    Pay attention, 
    My waking dream says,
    Pay attention.

    Notice the bird singing,
    The morning’s particular glow,
    The closeness of the dog-body
    Resting on the hard wood floor
    Because you are near.

    Then, the news.

    Another city,
    More death, more injury,
    More bullets piercing skin,
    Piercing hearts,
    Piercing lives.

    Another broken human
    Taking what cannot be given,
    Bullet velocity screaming
    His pain.

    A new mourning.

  • Loving me

    “I want to be the best version of myself.”

    I’ve read it, heard it, nodded my head in response.

    Yes, of course I want to be the best version of myself. 

    Recently, however, I’ve wondered. Do I?

    What does that mean, “best” version? Would it be acceptable if I were the truest version of myself? The most vulnerable version of myself? The most spontaneous version of myself? The most present version of myself?

    What if I just showed up, steadfast in simply being who I am?

    Sometimes I am exceptionally intuitive. Brilliant, even, in my insights. “Wicked smart,” someone told me. (I quite liked that comment.)

    Sometimes I am exceptionally dense. Dull, even, in my mental fog about a topic or a person or a situation. (And honestly, if you told me I was being rather dull today, I don’t think I’d be saying thank you for your truthfulness.)

    Am I a better person when I am tuned in to my intuitive nature than when I am absorbed in the fog of past trauma? Do you like me better? Do you run away from being in relationship with me when I am furious to the point of ranting and raving for at least 20 minutes?

    I no longer care to be the “best” version of myself. It implies another side of me that might come across as the “worst” version of myself. 

    Today, I am a little bloated. It’s possible my waistband is a little tighter this morning. Perhaps I’ve enjoyed more helpings of certain foods lately. Does this mean I have indulged? Is this a sign that I must quickly restrict myself from further enjoyment of a particular food, even to the point of suffering? Am I a better person if my waistband is not so tight?

    Lately, I’ve been considering a different set of questions. I don’t enjoy feeling the tightness of my waistband. I prefer a little more ease in the fit of my clothing. I could offer myself some time to inquire about this. 

    Food has been a source of emotional comfort to me in the past. Have I been feeling a need for comfort lately? Is there something troubling me? Something I have been ignoring? Even avoiding? 

    Have I been taking care of what other people need from me to the point of ignoring what I need from me? And if I recognize the “yes” in response to that question, then what do I need? What have I been ignoring? And how might I offer a time of listening to that being within me that is feeling sad or ashamed or afraid? 

    I don’t need to start restricting my calories in response to my tightened waistband. I need to take the time to listen to the younger version of myself. The one who needed solace in a time of deep distress, the one who felt she was alone, the one who tried to do better in a world that measured her worth by being good. 

    I am not alone. I have nothing to prove in order to be loved. I can be here for myself, standing alongside that little one who needs solace. I can solace her, until her breathing slows and her heart softens and the darkness dissipates.

    I do not need to be “better” than I am. Or to be the best version of myself. There is no better version of myself than the person I am this very day, this very moment.

    I am already all I need to be. Yes, still becoming. Still learning to find my own belovedness in the midst of life as it is. Sometimes bumpy. Sometimes confusing. Sometimes a little disconcerting. 

    In the light of self compassion — authentic self-care — the tightened waistband is of little concern. It is a signal that I am needing something more. More time, more rest, more art perhaps. More listening. More noticing. I might choose to wear something with a different waistband for a time, while I settle into who I am in this very now.

    I don’t need to be the “best” version of myself. Only the most loving toward the parts of me that need my attention. 

  • A “found poem” for Lent

  • Fluffy snow & singing birds

    I’ve been wandering this morning. In and through and around words, thoughts, imaginings.

    There’s a part of me that is feeling dreamy, not unmoored but also not anchored. I feel drawn to many things … a book, a blog, a podcast, a poem, a list of unfinished tasks, the promise of time spent making art …

    We had a snowstorm last night. I was outside, walking back from our early morning meditation in another building, seeing neighbors scooping up snow. While I am always appreciative of the labor of my neighbors in clearing snow from our pathways, I noticed the ease with which they were tossing the snow up into central piles. This was not wet, heavy snow but rather light and fluffy. As I took all of that in, I heard a bird singing in a nearby tree.

    Fluffy snow and singing birds. There might be a haiku in that. We’ll see.

    I notice in the midst of the wandering, I feel happy. Light, like the fluffy snow. Joyful, like the singing bird. My heart feels both peaceful and jubilant.

    Sometimes, I imagine peace as the cessation of anxiety. Calm in the midst of worry. Today, I think peace is this moment.

    Snowflakes fall slowly,
    Drifting onto fluffy piles,
    Nearby, a bird sings.

    ,

  • (no).

    Take a moment, you.
    Listen to the resistance.
    Tell me what you need.

    I’m listening. I have time.

    I’m right here …

    ,

  • steadfast

    I took note of a “Breath Prayer” by Cole Arthur Riley. She describes a breath prayer as: an ancient practice that connects short, memorable phrases with deep breathing. [Note: I’d highly recommend Cole’s book, now out in paperback, titled “This Here Flesh.” It’s transformative.]

    INHALE: I am not who I was.
    EXHALE: I will honor my becoming.

    I am not who I was.

    I do not reject my past. At best, I hope to honor who I was, remember what it took to survive, to remain in a world where I’d lost what I thought was the anchor of my being. And to learn from it. Recognize that who I became in order to survive was brave and determined to forge my own path. I learned to stay. Maybe not always gracefully. There’s a reason I was labeled as a “rebel” by some of my teachers, why I was blackballed from Honor Society. I did not suffer fools gladly. Nor did I tolerate anything or anyone that tried to diminish me. Today, I understand the price I paid for my rebellion. But really, I admire the spirit of that girl. So, no, I don’t reject who I was. I simply understand that in my survival, I devised a strategy that in the long run disrupted my ability to forge the connection I so deeply desired. Love me, I dare you!! Defiance works on one level as protection but not in the soft underbelly of love. And so I found myself “safe” but often alone.

    I will honor my becoming.

    Finding a home in myself has been a process of becoming vulnerable, of risking ultimate exposure to what I most fear, of trusting I am no longer that young girl who had no choice but to “armor up” in the face of dragons. Finding a home in my own body has been — and still is — difficult. In reality, it’s as easy as stopping to breathe and to notice. Not.Hard. Five minutes max, most of the time.

    However, this body is so programmed to work hard, to find the “should” in every moment … I should be good, I should look good, I should do better.

    Even more difficult has been discerning how to care for this being I am in the process of becoming. To do the regular things of daily life, like making my bed, sweeping the floor, washing the dishes. Finding and keeping a home for myself because I care about the person who lives here has been a life-long struggle. Now, after months of work (and a fair chunk of my savings), everything has a place where it belongs. Taking the time to “tidy up” and keep things in their place is still an unfolding process. Clearing out the clutter — really, the detritus of an unlived life — was the beginning. Taking the time to be with myself, to love the-one-I-am-becoming enough to sweep up the leavings of life — that’s an everyday practice.

    It takes a willingness to stop and notice, without judgement, what is happening in this moment. To notice what is happening in my body. To breathe as I notice. To honor what is.

    Can I be steadfast,
    unwavering, resolute
    in this care-of-self?

    May it be so.

  • not my story

    There’s a story being told about who you are and who I am.

    I protest. 

    The “truth” you tell yourself about me,
    the words you say to me about me …

    That’s not my story.
    Not my truth. 

    So we live in these different worlds,
    each of us yearning for a connection of the heart
    when our hearts are,
    ………… essentially 
    ……………………. disunited.

    Love is not enough.
    Goodness is not enough.
    Desire is, finally, not enough. 

    Thoughts and prayers and a willing heart
    are not enough.

    And I am left without hope
    of the harmony
    for which I yearn.

    There’s a story being told, 
    but I protest.
    I want a different ending.

    The mantle of guilt and shame
    you drop on my shoulders
    lies heavy with confusion and doubt.

    This is not my story. 
    Not my truth.

    Still,
    love remains.

    So the story is not yet over.

  • early morning


    I love waking up to the sight of this tree … my “tree of life” … my morning sun … my daily reminder that the sun rises and a new day begins … always, I can return to this.

  • unfolding

    deconstructing who

    I’ve been, I become someone

    always unfolding

  • Greetings, all –

    I have some trouble with beginnings.

    This blog, for example, has been “in process” for awhile. A suggestion from a friend. Umm, not sure. The suggestion was repeated. Umm, maybe. And again. Umm, okay. And then: what should I call it? What software do I use? (And most importantly, why am I doing this?)

    Over time, it became more and more compelling. Yes. Yes, I want to do it. And finally, YES! I’m doing it! (I have a logo!)

    A logo and a commitment to the software and a payment plan and a title and a domain name. And all the elements are ready. Waiting for the writing. Ready for the “next step.” And still I have not begun. Yes, there are videos meant to help me with that next step of creating the structure and launching the first post. Of course. “Watch videos” sits on my list of priorities. Finally, I go to the site (I do not watch the videos) and I select my colors and the font I prefer and an image for the heading … none of it terribly creative, just wanting to get started … and then, voilá! It’s launched! Wooee! That’s exciting.

    But still no writing. Another start. Another commitment. Another thing to add to my list of things to do. Yes, I want to. Yes, writing is one of those things that is in my blood and the desire to capture a thing in words compels me, delights me. And once I start, flows out of me like a river finding its way through the landscape.

    I’ve been shifting the energy around my “why” for doing … mostly, the things that — in my mind, at least — I resist. Household tasks sit high on that list. Just getting the dishes into the dishwasher is a task that can sit for days. I’m not a lazy person. I work hard at the things I love. I work hard doing things for the organizations I love. I work especially hard doing things for the people I love.

    But doing a thing out of self-love? Out of self-care? Umm … not the way things have worked in my life for a whole lot of years. It’s taken a lot of therapy to arrive at this point. I care about how it feels when the countertops are clear and ready for me to prepare food for myself. I care about going to bed with a clear surface on the table beside the place where I lay my head. I care about creating art in an area where I can find the paper and pens and pencils (and other art making tools) because they have a place where they belong.

    I’m beginning to feel like I belong in this place where I sit and type, where I sit and eat, where I prepare a cup of tea, where I make my bed each morning, where I put away my shoes, where I fix the way the rug lies because this is my home.

    Recently — very recently — I’m noticing I am “doing” a thing (on my list or not) NOT because I “have to” or “should.” Lately, I’m doing a thing because I want to. Maybe even because I like the doing of it. I might not ever really like keeping the toilet clean, but I like how it looks when the task is done. Ready for a guest … maybe. More importantly, ready for a person I care about … me. Oh, I like how that sounds: Ready for a person I care about (me). <big smile> Yes.

    I’ve also had to overcome perfectionism in my beginnings (but that’s a topic for another day). You know about this … I “have to” do it right and it (and I) have to look good, so it takes a lot to get started when I am in unfamiliar or “wobbly feelings” territory. Still working on all that “should-ing.” As I said, I notice the energy shifting. Hallelujah!

    And what was it that brought me to this page today? What was my ‘why?’

    Lament. As I woke this morning, I was thinking of the spiritual practice of lament. I have a friend who has lost something precious to him with wide-ranging implications. A new, exciting venture I thought was coming to pass in the coming year may be lost to me. A relationship I treasured for many years has morphed into uncertain ground.

    As I type, I lift my eyes to the horizon behind my house … a wide open field with an old cottonwood and beyond that a hill of open space. I see an elk foraging in the snow. It feels like a blessing to witness the life of a wild thing living on the edge of an urban area. Moving, existing, claiming what it needs, unafraid (unless you crouch down and behave like a predator).

    I am living in the space of lament. For my friend, for me, for the changes in a beloved relationship. We are broken. We are sad and often confused. We are in distress. Our bodies are tired or aching. We look for relief from the pain.

    And then I breathe. Again. And yet again. I breathe … not seeking relief from the pain but to simply ‘be with’ the pain. Be with the darkness of the moment. Stay with the discomfort of sadness and loss and confusion. Not to dwell in it. Not to be in the drama of it. Rather, to allow it to exist as part of my being. This, too, is who I am. A woman with sadness for my friend.

    Waiting for what comes. The sun rises with just a hint of pink this chilly and overcast morning. An elk appears on the horizon. I settle into a place of trust. My friend will do what he needs to do to mourn the loss. The hoped-for venture will unfold. Loving a person through the changes is always the right thing.

    I choose to trust. My friend, myself, the Mystery of it all.

    Early morning sun

    An elk foraging for food

    Lament becomes trust.