Three very random (or maybe not) thoughts

and possibly some unanswerable questions.

woven together

Hello Tender Travelers,

Today’s words come to you by way of many different thoughts that are needing to reach the page. This week was a practice of just honoring what is. I hope you find some resonance within these letters that, at this moment, make up some very complex feelings. I tried to number them in hopes of sense-making.

Thanks for being on this journey with me.

Number one. 

Growth happens at the edges.  A phrase that my thought-filled mind feels familiar with, but a phrase that when living— my body seems to forget.  The edges have always induced fear in me.  Even for the things I desperately want to change, there is still a bracing, a constricting down, a loyal-ness to the old ways.  A mistrust if you will.  I laugh because I am someone who, when riding up a mountain top or through a windy pass, has to close my eyes tightly (not while driving of course).  When close to these peaks, my body ignites with activation telling me not to get too close.  I would rather risk life and drive in the middle of the road than face the edge.   Similarly, I don’t like cliffs or vast look-outs, unless of course, I am at a comfortable distance with feet planted firmly on the ground and with my options on all sides to flee. 

Looking at the edge straight on terrifies me, as my lungs expand and a gulp of air lodges itself in.  Not being able to see the other side, while battling fear inside, is not my cup of tea. Yet, it also appears to be what I am thirsty for.  A quench dreaming up shifts and new perspectives.  A desire for what I don’t know to reveal itself in its finest mystery.  A longing to release what is no longer moving me towards wholeness, and open to what is possible.  

So how can I keep getting close to the edge—while knowing I am not going to fall, and instead leaving space to possibly fly?

A thought, a pondering that has been dancing in me for the last few weeks.  It feels as if I am wanting to break open and meet myself at the edge—and in a lot of ways I am.  Is it something that one must do again and again to feel the trust build in their bones? Or do I just befriend the fear and invite it along for the ride?

Some words that I often return to by Ursula K. Le Guin, “The dance of renewal, the dance that made the world, was always danced here at the edge of things, on the brink, on the foggy coast.”

Number two. 

Trusting the process is easier than it sounds.  To trust the process—I am learning—one must be in some sort of relationship with a practice of trust.  Something, that for me, I have been on a journey of rebuilding.  This forging of this new relationship means my eyes must begin to notice nuanced ways of being and my heart must begin to notice nuanced ways of beating—especially when it is uncomfortable. 

Things I am learning that are helpful touchstones:

(Beyond my smooth brown one I found at the edge of the water the other day)

• Being able to have awareness that you are at one of your edges.  Even if that means screaming or crying or clenching or weeping your way there. 

• Being able to surrender to the unknown is helpful and really really hard, especially when our bodies have known hurt.  Yet, where in lies the hurt, is also the healing. Learning to surrender to not knowing what may happen or where you may end up, while still having the felt sense that you will be okay—I am often finding is the remedy. 

• In this same vein, moving towards something without knowing of its outcome can feel beyond vulnerable.  For you are risking the comfort of knowing with the discomfort of change. The practice of surrender from what I am gathering is that of a practice of telling fear, or your protection—that you will be okay.  Lessons I am living, while moving towards what is possible.

• And lastly, being able to open up to the vastness of the mystery can be a nice tool.  When fear is present, or our old patterns, it becomes really hard to not narrow our thinking and our knowing.  Opening up to not knowing can be liberating, because it is in that place you have space for becoming.  Space for seeing what has been taking over inside to demand politely for it to move on.  Even the pain, when discovered, is less agonizing and scary than the anticipation or avoidance of it telling us it is.  In mystery, there is also great untapped beauty to which you may stumble upon without conscious knowing.  Connecting to the vastness of possibility for me has been the most potent way towards nourishing neuroplasticity. 

“I used to see a butterfly in my mind’s eye every time I heard the word transformation, but life has schooled me.  Transformation isn’t a butterfly.  It’s the thing before you get to be a pretty bug flying away.  It’s huddling in the dark cocoon and then pushing your way out.  It’s the messy work of making sense of your fortunes and misfortunes, desires and doubts, hang-ups and sorrows, actions and accidents, mistakes and successes, so you can go on and become the person you must next become.” —Cheryl Strayed 

Number three. 

For a long time I have always imagined healing to be hard.  I have always thought that to heal something that is not whole or to mend something that is broken, one must go to the cracks and feel all of the pain that went into creating them in the first place.  Yet, what I am living is—that that is just not true.  To heal does not mean you must go into the cracks, instead it might mean you just have to know how and with what to fill them up with.  During my morning pages the other day I wrote down:

 “Reclaiming yourself can be soft.” 

And to add, it can also be gentle.  Like rocking yourself back to yourself.  No more breaking, no more facing, no more should-ing, no more judging.  Instead, we need more subtle heart taps, more tender holding, more tears of grief.  

My body, I am learning, likes when I talk softly when it is in pain.  It likes when I whisper to it in my mothering soft voice, “It is okay, all is welcome.” It likes when I refer to it as dear and darling.  It likes the feeling of being touched by the tips of my fingers.  It also likes to sink into itself by following its exhales all the way down to the ground.  And it loves to feel my hands interlaced while resting on my womb—oh goodness what a place to land. 

I used to strive for breakthrough words that I felt were strong and fierce and the way in.  Now, I know that is not the way in. The way in is soft. It is gentle. It is kind. It is tender. 

Some potent words by Rumi, “Everyone sees the unseen in proportion to the clarity of his heart, and that depends upon how much he has polished it. Whoever has polished it more sees more - more unseen forms become manifest to him.”

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The Birth of the Mother is an embodied writing workshop where we will dive into our transformative journeys of becoming. Through the art of connecting to our bodies—these sacred vessels—we will tap into the stories that have been written in our cells. By connecting to these stories, we can access our inner wisdom while trusting our hearts to guide us to where we might need to go. Through a gentle and open community, we will connect, honor, and give voice to whatever might appear and bear witness to one another.

What you can expect:

Embodied Storytelling

Accessing Inner Wisdom

Connection, Community, & Shared Voice

If you might be interested in more information or in joining, you can find the link here: The Birth of the Mother.