On this New Year’s Day, I humbly and respectfully share the wisdom of Neil Gaiman. May we all breathe into his skill for translating life into words for sharing.

—-
Excerpt from Neil Gaiman’s Journal, December 31, 2018

Be kind to yourself in the year ahead. 

Remember to forgive yourself, and to forgive others. It’s too easy to be outraged these days, so much harder to change things, to reach out, to understand.

Try to make your time matter: minutes and hours and days and weeks can blow away like dead leaves, with nothing to show but time you spent not quite ever doing things, or time you spent waiting to begin.

Meet new people and talk to them. Make new things and show them to people who might enjoy them. 

Hug too much. Smile too much. And, when you can, love.

—-
And that my friends, is all there is to say about that. May we rest in the peace of infinite New Beginnings.

Take good care,
Rachel

“What was I thinking?” I say to my husband.

To which he replies, “I think you were feeling. I think the problem is that you’re thinking NOW.”

For a very brief moment, I stop my spin on “Who do you think you are? What do you know anyhow?” in reflection on my offering of a class and gathering for others to share their grief. I see Greg’s simple genius. He is spot on.

In these days prior to the first Christmas with my family yet without my dear nephew in body, I give myself the gift of more quiet space. I sit down with me and settle in to less thoughts and more hearing the birds. I recognize more when I’m breathing but not smelling. I feel aching tired in my upper back. In the center of the space, I feel the magnetic churning within me of,
“How exactly is this Christmas going to go with an elephant in the room?”

And Wisdom responds in quiet and tinkling tones,
“You don’t know.”

Nope, I don’t know. I don’t actually have any idea how it will go.

And so, I sit down in the sounds of the leafblower. The cars driving by. The warmth of my ears and the pulsing in my back and throat. The lingering taste of coconut and spices from a beautiful lunch with dear friends. The lean to my right into fatigue. The gentle numbness of my temples and tongue. The smell of the wooden prop that my computer rests upon winding its way toward me.

When my mind strays, I herd it back to center with an exhale breath and a gentle reminder, “Just this.”

Just this.

I take in here and now. Because that’s what I’ve got. This moment writing you out there. Me sitting in here. And closing the space between.

There is magic in the space between us.

Just this.

Less thinking. More feeling. That will be my love hold this Christmas.

Just this.

I wish you all well as you wrap in the robes of your holiday. And all that it offers you in Grace.

Take good care,
Rachel

I tap out right now. I have found immense courage in the wake of grief this year – courage to step out and be ever more seen. Courage to offer programs, classes, and words that stepped onto ground that I thought was untouchable. Courage to love more deeply – and likely to have my heart broken over and over as I invite that love to seep through me.

And sure enough, as I step into new ventures of Being, giving and doing that are offspring of my grief, my heart cracks a little deeper. It seeps a little deeper for the reason that I am at this particular place at this particular time. It grasps back through the past to a life that has completed and to a boy that chose differently than I have. Goo seemingly fills from the tips of subtly aching feet to my chest that feels safest today sucking in on the inhale to my scratchy throat.

I am thick and smushy and a lump of Being right now. Every crevice and cavern within this pulsing body feels full up. And with that fullness, I feel empty of the ever elusive thing we Westerners call “energy.”

And it is beautiful. It is stunning.

Feeling a bit like a bog creature wrapped in this skin of a human, I navigate today weaving in and out of choices for clarity and space. Moment by moment and breath by simple breath. I wake and meditate and move. I have clear broth soup for breakfast and sit with my kiddos. I think of my husband as he travels away from us on a plane. I am snuggled by my daughter and I snuggle her. I drink tea and water. I shop for gifts for my kiddos’ Angel Tree at school and I feel the overwhelm of sights, sounds and more in the store. I make a nourishing ojas milk and cancel a compromised credit card. I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch because that’s my best in that moment (not so clear or spacious but eh – it’s good to be human). I lay on my bed in silence listening to mantra and looking at the trees. I watch the birds on my feeder. I listen to the leaf blowers and see the blue blue sky. I see the fall turning winter winds shower the last remaining leaves over my yard. I buy pizza for dinner because I do not wish to deplete my body’s gas tank anymore. I navigate destruction of my son’s toy by my 3 year old daughter. I lose my stuff with my kids. I finish that blow and get quiet to ride the hot and fiery sensations that echo within. I arrive a bit slower in spin and a tad cooler with the three devil angels. I write to you all who dance with me around this same room called Life.

Hmm… yes. I do believe the bog imagery is spot on. Yet, I’m seeing it’s not so much a bog like creature tucked away inside of me. It’s more the bog itself that rests under my skin. Full, thick, heavy and full of such richness. Such richness of feeling the prism of my life.

I lean in here to the layers of mud, water, and swirling silt in suspension. I am held in the bog. I am embraced here by something as perfect as the trees and as flawless as the sun. In this moment, I rest in wholeness in the bog.

The feeling invites the Being. And the Being allows a deep saturation into the essence of all this Doing.

Wherever you are right now, may you find rest in that place.

Take good care,
Rachel

Nora runs up to me and says, “It’s dark, it’s dark!”

“Where is it dark?” I ask her.

“It’s dark everywhere! And especially in the stairwell. It’s so dark.”

“Well, what can you do?” I ask.

“I can use my flashlight.”

She tiptoes off in adventure across the kitchen to the dark, cavernous, abyss of our eight stairs to shine her way to the far off land of her upstairs bedroom.

I smile at her inner explorer.

Nora has eyes like brown glass marbles, eyelashes that sweep across her face, and a body of solidity. My niece and nephew used to watch a Japanese anime show that involved people in tribes that had magical powers over the elements. My niece has confirmed that Nora is no doubt an earth bender. Her firm steps and ability to ravage any electronic equipment that she touches including cd players, dvd players and ipads is unmatched. Her power is beyond compare in our house.

Are the broken electronics annoying? Heck, yes. But I marvel at her firm ability to Exist. Nora walks our floors with an acceptance of her existence that is different than in my other two kiddos. She is still only 3 ½ so her perception of the world’s judgments haven’t moved in yet, but the clarity in which she steps is inspiring. She seems to say, “I know my way and no person or thing shall stop my march.”

Later today I am unloading the dishwasher while my older two kids horse trade Halloween candy. Nora steps into my path as I stand with glass in one hand and plate in the other.

“Mama, why can I wink with this eye? (Insert left eye wink.) But I can’t wink the other one. See?”

She winces and contorts and squints but can’t quite get the right eye to close on its own.

Her face holds pure curiosity and wonderment. She looks at me for the answer. For which of course I have no answer so I just stand there smiling at her puppy like adorableness. My mother eyes are glazed in unconditional love.

She is the painted sunset to my watching earth.

A few more acrobatics of the right eye and she says, “Mama, can you help me wink it?”

My heart flits in an underwater somersault and my belly opens into a release of butterflies. Joy for this small request. Pure light and gentle amusement.

My eyes see her. They see all of this unstoppable soul inside of this powerful earth bending body.

“Yes, Nora.” I set down my To Do and cover the few steps between me and her. She has invited me To Be. And I accept. I softly place my fingers upon her right eye. I gently close it while she keeps her left eye on me.

I marvel for a moment at her ability to ask for support. Not to fight the presence of another but to invite me in.

This is a wisdom so often buried away as we get older. Nora exudes the open truth of “Please help me do what I cannot do myself right now. Because I’d like to experience this and I don’t know how.” Softness in her request. Openness for me to meet her. Such a small interchange and yet such light for us both.

I finish with my assist and she grins. Ear to ear (and I think all the way to the back of her skull) she grins with accomplishment. Her wink is no less accomplished in asking for and welcoming my support. Perhaps her wink is even more because we have shared it together.

She has accomplished and she feels that. She has asked for support and received it and she feels that. She feels so much more beyond my imagining.

I have witnessed her and I feel that. I have answered her request for support and I feel that. I feel so much more beyond my awareness.

This simple moment is not first steps. It is not the first day of school. It is not a graduation. It is not a new job. It is not a marriage. But in this single moment of Nora’s assisted wink is our entire shared universe. She opens. I receive.

And she giggles. And I giggle. We join together across a bridge of laughter.

In the midst of the noise, there is always quiet. Oh, how the little magic feels big. Ever so big.

Be well,
Rachel

My husband and I celebrated our 11th wedding anniversary on September 30th. We’ve been together for the past 15 years. We’ve welcomed three new humans into the world. We’ve said goodbye to at least five people that we loved dearly as they passed from this realm into the mist of what follows.

We’ve grown together. Evolved together. We’ve come out of hiding together to be more Us. Both in our individual selves and our togetherness.

This man is ever thinking and ever refining. He is a lover of systems and problem solving. He swims in the corporate world day to day. And yet he touches that potentially dry space with vivid color and connection to something More.

On this day, I’d love to share with you a piece that Greg wrote a couple of months ago. I share this as a glimpse into simple compassion and kindness in a time that can feel chaotic and swirly. When we each do what we can to soften this place we call Home, we do in fact make a profound impact. I am grateful to soften in with this kind, gentle and inquisitive soul.
—–

Most weeks, Rachel will ask me “Did you read my blog post?” In my head, I generally reply “I live your blog posts!” To prove this, here is my attempt to write something worthy of being a guest blog post.

My alarm is set for 5:00 AM, but yesterday morning, I woke up at 4:35 AM without the alarm and I was awake. When I say “I was awake,” I really mean that my first impulse was not to put the pillow over my head. In truth, it’s been rather hard for me to get up consistently at 5:00 AM to: feed the cats, run 1 mile, do very un-fancy yoga, and meditate for at least 5 minutes since early April.

Okay, running hasn’t been consistent since December.

However, yesterday was different. I was out of bed, cats fed, and opened the door to the screened-in porch, and that is when I heard a sound that stopped me.

I couldn’t distinguish the sound, just that it sounded like a human in pain. Against the early morning dark, among the rustling of green leaves, and very little else, there was this sound, bouncing and echoing around the neighborhood. I couldn’t figure out what direction it was coming from. I shrugged, went out the door, down the stairs, through the chain-link fence gate that sounds as loud as a car crash at that time of morning, then up the driveway to start my “run.”

Within a few steps, I had forgotten about the sound. A half mile later, I turned the corner, and headed down the hill, back toward my house. When I reached the point of my track that is roughly parallel to my house, a mourning dove started talking right above me and wanted me to listen. I stopped. That’s when I heard the sound again. This time I was sure it was behind me.

I walked slowly back up the street, listening, looking. There it was again. Passing one house, then coming to the next with lights on inside, front door open. Very uncommon in my neighborhood before 7:00 AM. I stopped and listened. There it was again. I shone my flashlight toward the house. The next time I heard the sound it was unmistakable.

“Help!”

There, fully hidden and laying between his house and tall bushes, at the top of a hill, set 40 feet back from the road, I found my 90 year old neighbor that I had never met before. It’s a little unclear how long he had been lying there, crying for help, but my best guess is at least 12 hours. He said he was pulling vines along the base of the house when he fell.

Right or wrong, my first instinct was to get this man out off the ground and out of the bushes.

A few minutes later, we were sitting together on his front steps. He drank several cups of water and his hands were starting to shake less. We sat there in silence, we sat and we talked, we sat there in silence. As the sun slowly climbed, the dark gave way to that strange blue before real
light shows you truth. The same light in which the box turtle you thought was in the yard was really just a leaf.

That was also when I noticed the noise of the day growing. Cars were on the roads, birds were singing, the neighborhood was waking up. I realized then how hard it would have been to hear this man’s cry for help after 6:00 AM.

Wait, there is more.

This morning, I got back from my “run” and I had the idea in my head to write this story about the morning quiet, but the irony was that I was so far in my head that I wasn’t hearing the quiet anymore. Once again a strange sound, this time very different, followed by the mourning dove.

So I took the hint. I sat down, closed my eyes and listened to the quiet, breath in through the left nostril, out through the right, in through the right, out through the left. I lost track of time.

At some point, something inside me asked, “How long have I been sitting here? Should I stop now and go do the rest of my chores?” That’s when I was bathed in a bright light. The motion detector on the back of my neighbor’s house had turned on, the dog was on his way out to do his business, the neighborhood was waking up.

Have a morning, as often as possible.

————-

May we find connection with one another through our sacred experiences in the quiet. May we learn how to hold space for each other beyond the fillers of busy and words and into the blue dawn of feeling. May we lean into the love and shared frequency of a spouse, a pet, a sibling, a parent, a dear friend, the mailman, and all others whom cross our paths.

May we share kindness and quiet as we explore in this Life.

Be well,
Rachel

It’s hard for me to right in this moment – as evidenced in that “right” versus “write” as I kicked off. I’ll tell you a bit about why since I apparently can’t focus on anything more grand or insightful right now.

It isn’t my typical emotional and mental overrun that has me grounding back in my body as I type. I don’t need to remember my physical body right now because it is in full spotlight. My body isn’t typically very pushy. But when it is, it’s like the bouncer telling my brain and heart, “Back of the line, toots. The front is taken.”

The skin covering my rib cage is ON FIRE. I’ve suffered my share of pain in three unmedicated childbirths, two broken feet and 20 years of migraines, but – as most of us do – I tend to forget the strength of intense sensation.

Many of my clients lived in the unignorable every day until they found a New Way of meeting their pain. And there are innumerable New Ways. The one that I’m most versed in is learning to feel yourself instead of run away from yourself.

I’ll affectionately dub this Armor Up or Open Up.

We’ll use me as an example right now. The primary sensations – the LOUDEST you might say – are the burning, itching, and tingling. Holy cow they are strong. But if I quiet, there are more. What else is in here?

Close my eyes. Pause. Feel. (I’ll even write with my eyes closed for this next part so I can stay primarily in feeling.)

Loudest is the itch at the sternum. It feels like it offers no relief but wait… the strongest itch travels from the right side of my sternum into the depth of my tissue where I feel it exiting through my back just behind my shoulder blade. Woah. Now a tingling of electricity in my shoulder as I’m with that feeling for a breath or two.

But the left side of my sternum. It is quieter. There is less itch over there. And what I do feel on that side is actually moving forward and out of the front of my chest wall into space. How fascinating.

What else is in here?

Next loudest is the itch in my upper chest. Again, more intense right of center than left. Some sharpness left of center.

Can I feel where the itch in the right upper chest stops and no sensation begins if I go outward? hmm. That’s tricky. But I can feel that in my armpit itself I do not itch. The soft flesh just in front of the armpit shivers with sensation. It’s got some stuff going on too. Again, stronger on the right than on the left.

But all so subtle. No way I would know without typing with my eyes closed right now.

Moving onward to peer through another thicket, I find…

My left armpit and the soft flesh in front of it are quiet. That arm can even be heavy as I allow it. The right arm still on alerted stiffness and shoulder in military “Atten-TION!” with it’s irritation.

Then there is the lack of breath. I am bracing against the itch. It’s been a shallow and tight breath thus far.

My jaw was locked on until this pause too. As I find it, it releases on it’s own and I feel that my facial muscles were all in contraction.

That natural release of my facial muscles and jaw gets me to wondering… What feels the opposite of this intense discomfort? Well, my legs are at ease. Not a bit of itch. Throbbing of blood in a rhythmic way. My nose is quite cool. Not a hint of the heat southward in my rib cage.

As I make this connection of opposites and discover coolness in this same house of a body where the fire rages, I find an involuntary sigh.

And now, now I can feel the tightness in my sternum. Like it is glued together. I begin to massage the soft tissue between my ribs. Tough. Dense.

Constriction.

My shoulder releases. My neck softens. A lack of sensation now. The itch and heat subside multiple stair steps.

Holy cow, the right side of my neck is tight. Now I can feel that. When I began this exploration, my neck was buried deep under my level of awareness. I had to follow the winding path to find it nestled below.

Short story, I am in a break-out of hives.

I could leave it at that and go to a doctor for a cortisone shot. I may still do that at some point. That is an option to get me through this.

But there is so much to learn here. There is so much to feel and discover in the hills, valleys and rivers of my awaiting body. And I still have to be in the discomfort while it runs its course. It is intense. It could be overwhelming. And I can bring my own tools into the mix – my honed toolkit of feeling and breath and movement and more feeling – to open up to them. To release the armor that my brain wants to clamp down in defense of the discomfort but, unwittingly, actually clamps down AROUND the discomfort.

My sweet brain unintentionally had locked me INTO the hot, itchy, and burning.

The itch just has something to tell me. Shivers run through my chest and arms as I write that. I don’t know what talk my body is trying to have with me right now but I do know one thing.

It’s pretty pissed at me. 🙂

As I write those words, I giggle and my whole chest softens. As does the discomfort. Yet again.

I feel my chest release just a hair in the tension and bracing.

Expansion. Over and over again as I’ve been feeling and sharing with you all, expansion.

A million ways to soften inside of the pain, the discomfort, the reeling thoughts and emotions. But in order to do so, you have to choose a road less traveled.

Armor up or open up. If we armor up, we insulate from the world but we also isolate from the world. If we open up, we flood outward. All of our Being floods outward into the Space that awaits.

huh. To return to how I started, “It’s hard for me to right in this moment.” Well yes, it is because there isn’t a “right” in this moment. There is infinite sensation and unlimited ways to explore it.

After all, what have you got to lose? Choose differently. And discover more.

Be well,
Rachel

I live in Central North Carolina. Hurricane Florence waltzes her way toward us right now. But I feel like she and I are in more of a tango. Finally. Prior to this morning, it was more of a street fight. And I was getting my butt kicked.

I’ve spent the prior 24 hours feeling a wound up washcloth of a belly, a twisted heart, and a perplexus of a mind. I wanted the “right” answer so badly. The right answer of how to protect my family.

The right answer of how to protect my family from what felt like the impending grief of devastation. A flavor I have come to know in my own way. That place shut me down from rational decision making and had me parked in the emotion of “I KNOW what grief feels like. I am going to think my way out of it right now. Please may I find the perfect answer. Please oh please.”

Commence wrangling rounds 1 through 20. And exhaustion from repeated defeat.

It is interesting. Usually I can communicate feel through my words. But I can’t articulate for you the intensity of the pleading, the internal kneeling, the contorting for safety that I was doing in body, mind and soul for that single right answer.

Yet I was missing something big. With my considerations and thought meanderings, I’d covered it all. And within my options, there wasn’t a single right answer. But – as my very wise friend and colleague pointed out to me – there was also no wrong answer.

And so I made my choice. I saw what my spinning was after. And in my way, I chose around that place.

In coming to action – from a place of not knowing what I’m even really trying to avoid – I was able to see the path that got me here. Community in a big way. Talking to those with more wisdom than I. Listening to those who could see more. Hearing the quiet lilt or the bemusement in neighbors decades older than me who have weathered so many storms both externally and internally. Watching the frantic-ness inside of me and in those around me. Seeing how it does not mirror at all the beauty that resides outside right now. A deep disconnect between that which exists inside of me in terms of a storm already at work and that which sits in front of me in feel of warm sun, thick heat, cicadas consistently buzzing, and my cats as lazy as ever.

I am not naive. I will continue to watch carefully and use the resources at my disposal. Most importantly, I will continue to take the next logical step. For my own Being and for those whom I love and hold dear.

And I will allow myself to rest a step back from it all deep within. To continue to witness the unbelievable majesty of nature in her effort at balance through air, water, ether, and earth. Using what she has available to her to not intentionally cause destruction but to do what she knows how to do. Balance in her way.

May we all be safe. May we all be well. May we embrace each other as we both watch and take action in the tango with nature.

Step wisely. Step thoughtfully. Step with love for yourself and one another in this peak of a plot line.

Take good care,
Rachel

Moments before the picture above, Nora looked over at me and saw tears streaming down my face. I was connecting to the loss of my nephew and the deep grief of the weeks and months directly after his death. A wave crashed over me and I did not fight back the water. What’s the point of fighting a wave? Who is actually always going to win in the end?

Nature. The wave. Always wins.

“Mama, why are you closing your eyes?”

“It makes it easier for me to feel sometimes, Nora. When I have something that I want to be brave about feeling, if I close my eyes, it isn’t as scary for me to feel the big thing inside.”

A long pause while she ponders and prods her homemade slime.

“Mama, when I close my eyes on the swing when I’m going, it’s scary. I’m like AGHHH!!! Right, Mom?”

I nod. And she continues, “But when I stop, if i close my eyes, it’s not as scary any more.”

Feeling intense emotions and the accompanying physical sensations can be ever so scary. And as 3 year old Nora said to me, feeling those sensations when life is churning and burning can be simply too much. Taking in 5 senses worth of information from the external world at the same time you’re feeling Big Feels can be unparalleled in the challenge. The go-to is to shove down the feeling and to walk away from it. Hopeful it will never return.

But nature always wins. Always.

And so alternatively, when the swing stops – as when the day pauses either by conscious choice or natural cadence – it is easier to close your eyes and simply Be in the Big of the Feeling.

Creating the space, the quiet, the pauses both short and extended in order to feel what is hard to feel. In order to sink in with bravery and courage to the quiet of you. Your shadows, your light and all the gradations of reflection in between. If you allow yourself to Be in those spaces of pure feeling, something magical happens.

Those hard feelings and those overwhelming sensations get heard. They get seen. They get honored as worthy of part of the infinite tapestry that is You.

Like Nora and I in the photo above, once you find a safe place to feel what you are feeling – or what lapped at your toes earlier in the day – allow it to roll. Let the tide tumble. Let the winds howl inside of you. Let the squall run across the ocean. You can do this on your own in the quiet when the swing stops moving. You can perhaps do this as you sit beside your three year old daughter and show her you can be with her at the same time You are with Yourself. Tears, tight chest, and echoes of the deepest of losses. Interwoven big feels with smaller feels of smiles, giggles and lilts at her fiery antics.

And you laugh through the tears of sorrow with your 3 year old because you are so damn grateful to be here at all. With her. Feeling this rich and fertile loss and longing.

If you can let the tears roll when the tears want to stream and if you can let the anger burn inside when the anger wants to flame, then you may discover something miraculous. If you feel when it is safe to feel, you free up internal real estate for the rest of the glorious symphony of life. The orchestral section of sorrow and mourning plays it’s beautiful and somber notes. And you feel them. And they echo in the chambers of your body. And they moan in the recesses of your heart. And they are necessary and integral and perfectly crafted notes of your Being.

Hours roll on. More moments occur.

And later in the day – because internal real estate of grief has been given voice and feeling and simply honoring of it’s request to be Seen – you can sit with a dearest of friends to embrace her newborn daughter. You can feel butterflies of happiness lilting in your chest. You can lose the connection to your feet for this time and all is light. The sunshine is beyond bright and it dances on your soul.

You can receive news that a dear friend’s MRI results are beyond good. The best. And you can spill over with inner joy. It seeps through every open pore and into the air around you. Every overflow is filled with gratitude. You have space for that fill-up and spillover and you can feel it run down your heart and your skin into a well of goodness and hope.

And in that moment, you are beyond grateful. Because if you didn’t have the opportunity and the courage to feel the Hard in the moment that it tsunamined over you in the morning, and to rest into that space and embrace it with all of your love for the depth and perspective it was offering you, you would already be full up with your own loss and longing. You would utterly miss the evening’s arrival with the earth shattering juxtaposition of happiness and joy sliding in under you like an ice rink of upward shining sunlight.

If you hadn’t leaned into the hard, you would have missed the healing.

Ride the wave. The wave is good. The wave is Now. The wave is Your essence of humanity.

Take good care,
Rachel