In my younger years prior to full prefrontal cortex development, there was this awful liquor we drank called After Shock. It was cinnamon flavored and felt like fire solidified into ice as it burned down the soft tissue of your esophagus. Good times, right? Lucky-to-emerge times is more like it.

I haven’t had a shot of After Shock in a really long time. Primarily because it was just disgusting. And secondly because After Shock actually existed within me that entire time. Especially in this month of August in this place of North Carolina, those same sensations are ever present for me to experience. And with no hangover in these years of a bit more discernment.

The suffering we feel day in and day out of moments both large and small reflect what is not to our “liking” in our lives. What we do have but we don’t want, what we don’t have but we do want, what we do have but will be going away soon. We wrap around the likes and dislikes and land ourselves in a tangle akin to the time my college roommate tried to speed dry her newly dyed yarn ball in the dryer.

Granted it was fun to be together as we unwound that ridiculous tangle.

I am in a tangle in this moment. Before I continue, let me be clear that I trust myself to be in this tangle so the why isn’t that important for our interface here. I trust myself because me, myself and I have a darn good track record at this point of being in a tangle and of walking out the other side with more of Me to bring along. I have an incredible team of people to turn to in my life. I have five functioning senses to bring me back to the moment. And I have a natural ability to Feel deeply.

Yet, there is a flip side to that natural ability.

When we can Feel deeply we may have a tendency to try to escape the “dislikes” in our lives. The uncomfortable, the fiery, the prickly, the sharp, the hard, the tight. You get the drift. But if we try to escape all of that, we’re missing the capital “P” Point.

The Point is that we land here at all exploring this earth, one another and all the flavors that come along with it. The Point is that we feel what we feel with bravery and courage. The Point is that we step into community in the hard stuff AND know that we will end up feeling more deeply and more pungently for the simple reason that we are now in a state of compassion for more than just ourselves. (That ‘pungently’ was going to be ‘poignantly’ but I like what landed so we’re going with it.)

For the past two weeks of deep summer, fire water has coarsed through my veins. In my yoga nidra practice, I can feel the throbbing of blood thick with southern weight – molten lava beneath my skin. In that pure stillness, it is intense to feel in the way that I imagine bungee jumping or skydiving to be.

As uncomfortable as it is to feel what is present, there is some part of me that is intrigued by my innate power that is the very source of these sensations.

Just as a mother’s body creates the contractions of labor that deliver her child, so does my very humanness create these sensations to match Me perfectly in a given moment. The sensations match MY intensity, MY power of thought, MY power of grief, MY power of love.

That is an arrestingly beautiful thing. All this feeling of my own deep and infinite creation. All this comfort and discomfort of my own sculptor’s hands. I use what I have learned in this life to sit down in the flames and fall in love with myself over and over again. The hot seat can be intense. But I have a secret to tell you… intensity is the name of my game.

And so I make space to feel the anger. I lessen the inputs around me – less people, less moving pieces, less stimuli in general – and I hang out with glorious, powerful, fiery Me. This is my Grace right now. The ability and desire to Be with Me in this Life in this Day.

Nothing – absolutely nothing – you feel is wrong. It is all just glorious, powerful, fiery You. Make space to feel You and not hide from You. You are stunning in your Grace.

We are stunning in our Grace.

Take good care,
Rachel

See the lovely photo of snuggles and love up above? Totally symbolic of human connection and joy, yes? Well, it is for me at least.

And there is more.

A few weeks back, I was cleaning out the van post my return from Calgary. I pulled a few things out of the back of a seat pocket and found this magazine clipping.

“Aww… that’s adorable!” I chirped to myself. “One of my kiddos cut this out for a collage at camp. They must really value the connection with us! Kiddo and parent loving one another. And appreciating diversity too! Hooray! We’re doing GREAT at this parenting thing.” Granted not every single word of this went through my head but it was the gist of the feeling I got in seeing it… as well as the assumptions that I made about the meaning behind it.

And in this moment of parenting bliss, I happened to flip the image over:

My brain snagged like the tape of a cassette.

“Okay, so that’s different than what I thought this was.”

And then a smile of seeing more and being busted out (once again) of my “I know all” box.

Whichever kiddo this was saw something totally different than I did. Maybe my kid saw a furry puppy and thought “cuddly.” Maybe she saw the dog and thought “I want that.” Maybe he saw the eyes and included the dog on his “things I never want to meet in a dark alley” collage. I can make a bunch of guesses as to what attracted said Manetti child to this image but I don’t really know. It is the mystery and beauty of them being them in that moment. And my attraction to the opposite side of the image is the mystery and beauty of me being me in this moment.

Same shape, same cut out, entirely different foci. Kiddo saw what he or she needed to. And I saw what I needed to.

And so it goes in this life. Each of us seeing the moment as we alone see it. Adding our own meaning, our own judgments, our own criticisms. And perhaps spending time in the very same moment with someone who sees a fully different picture in the same frame. Sharing time and space but each creating our own stories.

Hanging out together as we create our stories for this life.

Curious and yet oh so beautiful, isn’t it? Over seven billion people and over seven billion truths depending upon how a person’s context leads their attention. And to have the invitation to step back and see another’s meaning of a moment, well, that is a bit magical in how it can expand our ability to connect, love and learn.

There is always more to see. Always.

Take good care,
Rachel

In this connection with you, I could slice and dice and turn the prism of a moment of shame and self-criticism in my typical few directions before landing in softness. Yet, the heat, sharpness and intensity of summer reside not only outside but also inside the container of the body. These qualities of summer exacerbate the tendency I have to dissect, inspect and reorganize whatever discomfort I am in.

But I am full up with input and that pattern is not serving me in this moment.

Said directly: I’m sick of slicing and dicing right now.

When I am with a private client or a small group of students looking at the body, we don’t just consider the parts in isolation. We explore the parts in relation to the whole. Yesterday, one of my clients and I played with how some of her PT movements post knee surgery weren’t quite feeling “right.” In our explorations, we discovered she was bracing in her jaw and rib cage – which hampered her intention for strengthening the supporting musculature of the knee. After all, if the rib cage and jaw are locking and loading to do her exercises, why would her hip or inner line have to do much of anything? I love the moment when my clients – or myself in my own movement practice – see how much power they have to move toward their intention. And that power emerges when they quiet the current patterns and uncover previously untapped potential.

I wonder where I am going with this… Let’s walk on and find out.

If my pattern is to slice and dice my discomfort in order to come around to seeing myself as more whole, then what if I play with options outside of this pattern?

Option 1: I could slice and dice where I feel comfort / joy / wholeness to see myself as more broken. This is kind of the opposite of what I normally do. My left eyebrow lifted at that and left side of my mouth tightened up. It doesn’t exactly seem like it matches my intention right now.

What exactly is my intention here? Good question, Rachel. My intention is to lighten the full-up feeling. Okay, then with that in mind, let’s consider another option.>

Option 2: I could see any current full-up discomfort objectively and add no judgments based upon past experiences or future expectations. And so I say to myself objectively, “Right now, I feel full-up. And this week has many moving pieces and transactions in it.” Hard stop and breathe.

Breathe some more.

I feel space here. Immense space surrounding my head. The room actually feels like the walls have expanded outward by several feet. My eyes go beyond the computer screen to look out the kitchen window and up to the trembling leaves. I remember my 5 year old daughter’s softness back in the spring as nature came alive once more, “Mama, the leaves are dancing.”

Or the same daughter on a different day sitting on the front porch and abruptly looking up at the top of the trees as the branches swelled in powerful wind driven rushes against each other, “Mama, the trees sound like the ocean.”

Or my son freezing as the van door opened late one evening and the night greeted his spinning, buzzing, jack rabbiting 8 year old self. His eyes were intent as he looked into the space of nothing in the back of the garage but the radar of his ears opened behind him toward the driveway and the big big world, “Mama, it’s like the cicadas are shhhh’ing me.”

Ah. Option two has met my intention in a circuitously beautiful way. Less full up now. Less thickness. More curves to my inner belly, less sharp edges. Fuller breath and more complete exhale without any force.

Option two dropped me at the station of our shared super power, Presence. This moment.

Slicing and dicing, analyzing and examining, rotating and perplexing to see a new window into my 360 – they all fulfill a pattern of a desire I have to see and understand more. And sometimes that’s really good stuff for me. And sometimes it’s not good stuff for me.

Curiously enough, even without the slicing and dicing, I can come to the place that the slicing and dicing eventually delivers me. Presence. Here and now. These feet upon the floor. This softening brow. This set of shoulders softly rolling forward into Is.

If the slicing and dicing brings me closer to feeling when I can’t get there from my current state, I am ever so grateful. Because as I feel more, I feel MORE. More joy, more elation, more confusion, more sadness, ever more more more. And it is all beautiful because it is all this amazing Life.

Feeling more is just more hanging out.

It has been cloudy as I’ve written these words over the past 10 minutes but the sun just emerged in the left side of my picture window. New light. New shadows. New gradations between right and wrong, yes and no, black and white. A new moment to Be.

Take good care,
Rachel

I missed writing to you all for July 4th. You should have received an email from me but you didn’t. That is hard for me. It is also reflective of where I am. And where I am is only hard for me if I fight it and make it wrong to be here. Instead, I’m going to sidestep around the 360 to look into my current literal and figurative living space with a different lens.

The image above is of my dining room table. Welcome to my home.

I have just returned from my fifth and final Certification trip to Calgary as well as an extra 10 days of family vacation time. It was hard and glorious. Hard to be far away from home. Glorious to be far away from home. Hard to be far away from ground zero of grief. Glorious to be far away from ground zero of grief. Hard to be away from family. Glorious to be with the dearest of people in Calgary.

Upon my return home, I met with my therapist to begin unpacking the corners of grief that I was stiff arming during the tail end of my travels. And to be frank, it is a box of fireworks. It is a Pandora’s box of sorts to turn toward your grief. Because tied up in grief – as so many know who have chosen to walk into its eye and meet it – is the weave of your Being. Nestled into grief is the bedrock of your prior understanding of life and the lack of understanding of your present situation. And navigating the waters in between those two places is the journey you can choose to make. In fact, it is a journey that I do believe may be critical for peace following the warp time travel of loss that drops your heart so very far ahead of your brain.

The gold of this is that in my training as a yoga therapist (a.k.a. Life 101), I’ve learned a new skillset and unearthed buried abilities to be with this grief without my everyday freezing up. I have the stamina and container to hold more feeling in one moment than I did prior to my Certification program. Or perhaps more accurately, I have the stamina and container to allow more feelings to roll through me in their own perfect time. The beauty of letting more roll through on its own current is that I am not so caught in the grip of one emotion or thought. When I’m not caught in a grip, I can step back and see more of what I need in a given moment.

And right now, I need to be with the messy. Right now, I need to let my dining room table mirror the fireworks in my head and heart. Right now, I need to let my kid’s play room floor have piles of toys. Because I’m feeling like I’m over hiding the “fireworks” box in the closet. (Remember, not literal fireworks. We do not have literal fireworks in our common room or children’s closets.) Over the course of my training, I’ve taken out the sparklers and the North Carolina very basic approved firecrackers of my inner self. Yet, I do believe I’m stepping into some more serious pyrotechnics now. South Carolina style high sky explosions.

As a result, stacks of life on my dining room table are representations of the myriad of thoughts, experiences and projects in process. As are the plethora of playroom toys that are normally so perfectly hidden in tucked away bins. Right now, my self work is to look at those piles of chaos and to be with them. Perhaps I can love them for the fact that I invited each and every single thing into my life at some point – or at least accepted it when it entered my door. Then I can see that all of our Stuff – physical, emotional and beyond – has a time and a place for holding and a time and a place for release.

For now, I will sit with and feel what my dining room table piles create in me.

Broken toys that have passed their prime. School forms for my two older kiddos as they begin the journey of Kindergarten and Second Grade. A Career Journal of my husband’s left untouched with space for dreams and More. A reflective book on understanding suicide and the correlating journal.

Heaviness for time passing. A contraction of my heart walls.

Containers to return to dear friends that have brought food to my doorstep. Books related to my work of helping others to help themselves. Teas that served me in the winter and spring. Toy swords that my kiddos tend to get overzealous with as they play with one another. Seeds for the ground that I have never given to my Earth. A coffee maker that awaits the return of my parents. Bags of gifts for others that I have not chosen to deliver as of yet.

Connection beyond my chest to what is not in my body. An outward expansion of my heart walls.

USB cable.

Unknowns. Open questions. Things that I don’t have context for and that are not mine to hold or “do” with. They are for others.

I don’t want to any longer just pick up these things and hide them in a desk or the basement or on a shelf. I want to see them. To see their service to me. And to move them to their rightful next place wherever that may be when the time is right.

My kitchen counters are still relatively clear. The laundry is still going through its loads of washing and folding and drawers and return again. But the piles of stuff both seen and unseen are softly inviting me to be with them. To love them. To accept them. Not to hide them.

And I have a niggly feeling that once I accept these piles of stuff both physical and emotional – that box of fireworks with all its dancing lights, colors and heat – then the release of all will come naturally. One small step at a time. Feeling. Being. Acting. Living.

This is no sprint. This is the marathon of loving life. We embrace what is and allow the explosion of glorious hard love to bathe us. Fittingly enough, a huge clap of thunder just echoed as I wrote the prior words.

**BOOM**

Be well,
Rachel

On Monday, I lost infinity.

I sat on a hill in Calgary. Immense sky, blue with the feeling of tightly woven cotton decorated by a river of clouds. Grass that swam below me. A shower of seed pods that looked like snow feathers dancing through the air and softening downward. I sat in awe of the marvels of the earth’s nature. And then I sat in awe of my own nature. As I sat, I allowed myself to feel my worry – wave upon wave, over and over – some of the weights each of my beloved family members carries in grief. Over and over I looked at the sky to trust my dear and knitted family on their individual walks. Over and over I looked at the ground as I unleashed and voiced my fears, my frustrations, and my molded reality.

Ebb and flow. Sky and ground. Fear and trust. Clench to what was, release into what is.

Later that day back in the studio, our teacher was talking about heel inversion and eversion relative to forefoot pronation and supination when my eyes were tugged downward. I pulled up my sleeve already feeling what was true. Or perhaps it was the lack of feeling that drew my eyes to my wrist. Regardless, I confirmed what I knew. My magnetic clasp infinity bracelet was gone. Missing. My heart dropped and I sucked in a short, sharp breath.

That breath ran into a sticky of immediate understanding.

“You know it won’t be a forever bracelet,” my sister’s matter of fact voice echoed across time and space. “It’s magnetic, so at some point it will disappear.” She bought this bracelet for me at our family’s annual Lakefest gathering two years ago. A street festival of mid-July sweaty Southern Virginians, greasy food, and some perhaps incongruous lovely hand crafted treasures.

That Lakefest day was in 2016 mere weeks before my very first Yoga Therapy Certification trip to Calgary. The bracelet has traveled with me each time I have come here. Linking across time and space to the trust fall of my family whenever I dive into this place of a bottomless well of uncomfortable corners of me, overwhelming joy in me, and expansive opportunity for me. And that bracelet has left me days before the end of my fifth and final bumpily glorious Certification week trip.

Yet, I know more now. That bracelet was merely a symbol of infinity. A reminder in physical form of my connection to all and always. A tangible link to my family far away in time and distance as I unpacked me through this multi-terrained, ever morphing adventure of the past two years. This path of life which has exposed a new well of inner and outer support to walk through the level and the rugged.

Infinity didn’t disappear on Monday. My symbol of infinity disappeared. It let go of me. A symbol is but a representation of a thought. Of an idea. Of a concept. Of a feeling. Of an essence.

Infinity in the grass. In the sky. In my hands and feet. In each and every heart of my family. In each and every soul of my Certification Crew. Infinity. Here we rest. Clasp let go. Symbol no longer seen. Pure faith in the feeling. We step onward with infinite love.

Be well,
Rachel

30 move. 10 med. 20 journal.

A variation of this is pretty much what an early morning text to my mother and sister has looked like for years. Whatever our “daily practice” is, we each capture it in this ritual of sharing. And the first part – 30 move – is where I tend to discover my day’s baseline.

My most insistent student and my best teacher come together each morning on my mat.

My early morning practice on the mat is a time of self inquiry. “Where am I at today?” is the question that leads me. Because as much as I may think I know **how I’m doing**, my body always knows much more than this brain that wants to stick to its habits, patterns, likes, and dislikes come hell or high water.

I used to think that I was beyond needing my breath as a guide. “Other people might need breath but I’m already at ease. I’m all good.“ The trouble was, I was controlling my breath. And quite frankly, I have years of practice from the control tower of “Let’s hunker down and white knuckle to get through this.” But I don’t have as much practice from the “Allowing” tower. Which would be problematic if that actually existed at an airport but is vital to contentment. So focused and intense being that I was, I was exacerbating this “control” quality of mine by demanding that my breath go in now and go out then. It appeared that my breath was all good because I forced it to look that way.

And there is more.

When I breathe and am quiet. When I move with intention and am quiet. When I move in a range of connection and am quiet. In these places of exploration, I discover what is and not what I am forcing myself to be. I dance with contentment.

—-
“Huh – my breath today is tinny and ever so shallow. It is heavy.” Pause. Continue to feel it. Yes, that observation is pretty spot on. No need to take deeper breaths. Simply allow it to be. The tinny and shallow breath is my starting point. Now I respond to it by moving in a way that honors it for the weight that it is carrying for me.

I cannot hide from the weight of grief so this very breath is my mirror. It is an honoring of the importance of the feeling that I am doing. The tinny and shallow breath is nothing to be fixed. Grief is not to be fixed. Grief is meant to be felt. My very breath just as it is right now is meant to be felt.

Move through the practice – small therapeutic movements, stillness, component pieces of yoga poses, full poses. I offer compassion to my shallow and tinny breath by moving in a range that does not put more demands upon it when it is already doing so much good and very hard work for me.

To that question, “Where am I at today?” come quiet responses that trickle through as I move.

“My right leg feels heavy. My feet feel light. My feet feel cold. My tongue feels thick. My left rib cage feels bumpy and catches when I come deeply into hip flexion. My throat feels closed. My right shoulder feels a bump when I bring the arm up too high. My head feels heavy and wants to tip backward.”

Nothing to fix. Everything to feel. And everything to honor. I choose to not force further into that tension or this sticky or that bumpy, but to stop just before it. I accept the range of my body that it offers me with ease. Exploring what is. Exploring contentment.

At the end of the practice, my breath feels not nearly as tinny. My inhale and exhale feel more even. My feet feel solid to the ground. My hips feel softer. My shoulders feel broader. My head feels balanced on my shoulders and not tipped back any longer. My rib cage is moving of it’s own volition with my natural breath. My throat feels more open. And so much more.

Noticeable shifts when I quiet to feel them. Gifts from my body in response to my love and acceptance of where it was at. Where it is now at. And new information to carry forth into my day.

—–
The information is endless and my power is limitless when I embrace the quiet, the stillness, the wisdom that seeps from inside to out. Breathe naturally, move well, feel in, discover more, and meet what you’ve discovered with compassion. If you’re willing to dive into your Being, your body will reward you with ever deepening resilience, strength and agility.

May you find joy in the power of discovery.

May you find freedom in the power of choice.

Be well,
Rachel

Suffering is innate because we experience the gift of relativity. The measure of felt loss is directly related to the measure of felt love. Without one, the other cannot exist. Without the joy, we cannot know the emptiness that follows. Our stickiness in suffering arises from another place – our intense belief that once a new page is turned, no joy can exist. The certainty that when winter sets in, there is no beauty to be found there without the fullness of summertime leaves. For those moments when we can release our grip on the past as good and the future as bad and we land somewhere in between, we discover awe of the past and wonder for the future. We open. We receive. We reside in the moment in honor of all that no longer lives in body and instead guides us in spirit.

I open. I receive.

We open. We receive.

Open. Receive.

I sent this email moments ago to the president of my daughters’ pre-school PTA:

I feel so bad… I sent the cups in but clearly too late this morning as they came with my daughter for her 9:15am arrival. I apologize for my oversight of the (8:30am) time stated on the signup form. It hit me a moment ago that it made no sense I sent them for breakfast and yet they came when teachers would have already needed to be in class. When I looked at the form, I saw my misstep.

I’m embarrassed to have missed this and am so sorry for any scramble.

What do I feel physically right now? My heart is crunched into a held rib cage. My hips and pelvic floor are heavy and tight. My eyes and jaw are scrunched. The left side of my upper back has very faint tingling and as I write, my left tricep is twitching. Those are only a handful of the physical sensations at play.

Emotionally, the most obvious sensation is embarrassment as I wrote in my note.

And mentally? Mentally, I am in judgment of myself.

“How could you forget?” And more accurately to the judgment at hand, “How could you disappoint and inconvenience someone else? You probably made them scramble to find cups for the breakfast. This was YOUR responsibility, Rachel. It was YOUR commitment.”

Shame. Lean in to that. Not the words and the judgments of shame, but the physical feelings. Can I sit with them and let them roll around like a storm on the ocean? What is here physically when I allow the thoughts to pause and sit with the physical ride of this moment? Into the eye, I go.

Electricity in my jaw. Now, as I watch it, shifting to an aching. A dull throb in my temples and specifically at the base of my skull on the right. A full and complete spontaneous exhale signaling that my nervous system is with me and it is downshifting. My pelvic floor has now released on its own. I am breathing easier and although they are still shallow breaths, there is much less effort behind them. I realize that my belly and diaphragm are releasing. Skull tension that I did not know was present is settling as the skin softens back downward and out of it’s taut pull across my head.

What do I feel now emotionally? Still embarrassment. But also deep sadness. Sadness for my loss of a loved one. Tears well up and I sit here with a whole new wave of physical sensations. They are distinctly different than those that came with the shame. They are still heavy but also softer. Less angles. More curves.

And mentally? Mentally I know that this president of the PTA is competent. She is surrounded by competent individuals. Pre-school teachers for lord’s sake. Cups abound. No doubt, they were not drinking out of their hands. And if they were, what a great story for teacher appreciation week.

The question I am left with as I ride this moment is, “What have I learned?”

I have learned that self-criticism can kick in pretty easily right now. And that my self-blame is partially trying to protect me from the intensity of grief and sadness for a loss that I cannot change. That loss is objective reality and my subjective “bad Rachel” self-blame is a convenient camouflage for my grief. I’ve learned that I am still so very sad. That I am doing what I deem “easy” things during a hard time. And that “easy” is relative to the moment. I have learned – once again – that compassion awaits if I can turn toward my pain and quiet the self-judgment and the “good / bad labels” to feel the dynamic physical sensations. I’ve also learned that during this time of grief, I want to give myself the gift of a second look at things that “should” be easy – like what time to drop of cups at the pre-school. These are the details that typically settle so firmly into my brain and right now are washed aside as noncritical. I’ve learned that I want to continuing giving myself that Space and, in doing so, I can hold myself more gently.

My breaths are deeper and more complete now. I still wish I had dropped the cups on time. And I also know it is okay.

All is well.

Welcome to Yoga, the science of transformation by awareness.
Welcome to Life.

Be well,
Rachel

p.s. If you made it this far, you get a bonus of my husband’s input here. I adore this man. We are ever so good for one another.

I missed a blog post on Thursday, April 12. I’ve connected with you all consistently and without fail every other Thursday morning at 6:00am since January 2017. And I missed Thursday, April 12. That was almost a 30 post run in a lovely and work affirming cadence. And then, as with my meditation timer a month ago:

Week 1.

This post is Week 1.

And that is okay.

It is okay because I had no idea what to say. I had everything to say. I had nothing to say. And so, I will share with you all – my friends of face seen and unseen, met and unmet – my heart’s tragedy.

On Friday, April 6th, my amazing, sweet, thoughtful, smart, funny and without equal 17 year old nephew Thomas, took his own life.

Thomas – as each person in this world – was a one time story of his own making. And for each individual who was fortunate enough to know him, they had their own Thomas. I suppose I’d like to tell you about My Thomas.

My Thomas was an infant when I first met him in Hawaii. My sister lived there in 2000 and for the years thereafter as my brother-in-law was in the military. I was in college and my parent’s paid for me to fly out to visit. And to meet my very first relative of the next generation, Thomas James Joyner.

I took multiple trips to Hawaii to visit my sister with her new son and later, in 2002, with her new daughter. My sister is 7 years my elder. And eons beyond in wisdom. She has always stood on her two feet ever so landed in her center and knowing who she is and how she is meant to walk this earth. She gives of herself wholely and unapologetically. She is my hero. She always has been and she always will be.

My hero gave Thomas to the world. She and my brother-in-law offered up this miracle of a creature. A babe who watched and absorbed. My first glimpse of life everlasting in a new generation, Thomas was a child of curiosity and insatiability. A babe who called “Auntie!!! WIPE ME!” across the house in Hawaii and would not let his mother do the job. A toddler who was entranced by his uncle – my older brother – using his mini-excavator to take down a dead tree in my parent’s front yard. A kiddo who stared at my then boyfriend (now husband) in 5 year old awe as Greg laid beside him on the floor, snores wracking the room while Thomas tried (unsuccessfully) to concentrate on “Shark Tales.” At 6ish, he walked Washington, DC at Christmas time with his family, Greg and I to see the National Christmas tree. And he became so exhausted that he began to fall every 10 steps or so as small legs gave up their goods. He and his family snuggled in my 600 square foot apartment that weekend. Love and joy and family in a pile. (And probably some whining now that I know what small children are like in the same room with their parents.) 7 year old Thomas and his sister carried the rings at my wedding. His face a bit of a grump, bowtie on and endurance in full effect. Thomas, my husband and I floated in my grandparent’s magical Banister River when I was weeks away from delivering my first babe. His father, my dear brother-in-law, sat on our ancient brown Aqua Patio pontoon boat feet away, arms crossed watching us with classic stone face and intermittent single eyebrow raise. Thomas and I were in awe of my humongous belly’s natural buoyancy. Floating me up to the surface each time I tried to go vertical in the water. We giggled as I tested physics over and over again. Thomas held each of my 3 babes with his classic wonderment and peace at the miracle of infancy. Thomas liked Sprite, ate inhuman amounts of ice cream sandwiches and drumsticks in a row at the lake, and read insatiably. Dark chocolate was his love and chocolate pie one of his soul foods. He loved to ski tube and could not turn down my son’s requests to join him. He asked questions of my husband like the one he posed via Facetime only weeks before his death, “Uncle Greg, does the perfect movie exist and if so, which one do you think it is?” In case you’re wondering, one of Thomas’ picks was “Shawshank Redemption.”

I remember he told us it shone clear light on hope when there appeared to be only hopelessness.

Thomas spoke his mind. And his mind was amazing. It saw nooks and crannies that I could not begin to fathom. It was curious, creative and ever inquisitive. Thomas was kind with a heart too big for his body.

At Thomas’ memorial service, the walls of the church rang with peace and deafening space. We spend so much time in our lives clamoring and grasping for S-P-A-C-E and yet when a bright soul leaves a body, it’s like the space is deafening. The service was beautiful, moving and all that it should have been. It was a church filled with Hawaiian flowers, Hawiian shirts and dresses and immense love for a life well lived. Immense love for a soul fully accepted by those who saw him, treasured him and elevated him.

Following the service, there was a family picnic to which all were invited. It was in the spacious backyard of a dear neighbor’s home and a shimmering creek runs through the rear of their flat, green yard. A playset is on the side of the yard, a sandbox in the middle – my children call it “Ms. Laura’s playground” as it sits directly across the street from my parent’s house, the childhood home of myself, my sister and my brother.

I’m clearly a lover of words but there are no words for the heartache or the heartburst that I have experienced in alternating moments over the past two plus weeks. In certain moments, it is like my heart could implode into my center. And in other moments, it could explode into the limitless universe.

At this picnic, there was a Grace unlike any I’ve ever felt or witnessed.
In that backyard at that picnic, it was a moment of heart explosion.

High school friends’ of incredible Thomas sat creek side by the sparkling waters. Some walked in the cool, trickling flow. My small children crawled around with my niece’s amused 15 year old friends in tow playing “Lion King” and roaring life into the trees, the blue sky and the green green grass. Each family member was greeted by face after face of far past to current days and held in love and light. My parents each had their own circle of beautiful love from 60+ years of life and affect on this world. My sister’s in-laws had their own personal web of military life strewn far and wide come together on that green green grass. My brother-in-law and sister were held in that backyard by friends from childhood to college to Tennessee to Hawaii before returning back to their Virginia roots – held in laughter and tears and everything in between. My niece was encircled by her adoring cousins and her friends who see her jewel of individuality perfect in every way. My brother and I were seen and touched by childhood family friends – voices of yesteryear from every corner enveloping us in tears, love, laughter and curiosity for our “now” lives. My own high school, college and “grown-up” friends showed up both in body and in heart with their unique acceptance, their compassion, and their graceful wordlessness. Pure presence.

We walked on Holy Ground that afternoon. We walked on Holy Ground because Thomas’ physical absence invited immense space to fill. And that immense, vast and indescribable void for a moment in time was filled with trees, fresh spring leaves, water, birds, flowers, homemade food in bellies, and the wholeness of love from every direction of Grace. My life was already forever touched by my family’s knit – one of perfect complexity in weave and color. My life is now forever touched by seeing my family’s reach – a gift given to us by Thomas and not to be underestimated.

Thomas felt his thoughts and emotions deeply and passionately to the quick of his bones. They were ideas and feelings that he could not ignore and could not escape in intensity. In my own way, I get that. Starting in adolescence and straight through early adulthood, I battled demons of intensity that I escaped in the only way I knew how. And I lucked out. I emerged on this side of adulthood and have the gift of standing and looking back.

I also have another gift. I have the gift of teaching others and helping them to Be In It. To feel the intensity of this life – which can very abruptly spiral into the anxiety of this life – and to know that it is okay. That this body has got you if you can lean into its gifts. That the ground has got you. That your breath has got you. That your heartbeat has got you. And that it can and will carry you to the other side if you can find the support that you need to ride the current wave.

And so, I will continue to do my work but with such clear focus now and such understanding on so many more levels that my path is mine to walk. And to ride. And to stumble. And that you and I are on it together. We are coming together in this moment through my words and your eyes and we are in a time and space of something more than “Me” in my body and “You” over there in your’s. You get to meet me through my words. And I get to meet you through your Presence. And that is magical. That is a gift of this life.

One last thing. You do not need to say “Rachel, I am so sorry.” And you do not need to ask me, “Are you okay?” As my sister so beautifully has said over and over, “There are no words. There is you feeling what you need to feel. There is me feeling what I need to feel. And in doing so, we can just be together.” As we give each other the space to do so, we honor Thomas’ kindness and compassion. Pass along a kindness today. Honor the space of another’s feelings that may not mirror your own. Allow yourself the gift of stepping into a human Being human, and I will do the same.

Be ever so well,
Rachel

“The secret to happiness is low expectations.”

This is a favorite quote of a family friend from my childhood. There is so much truth here. And so much room to argue.

“But how can we have greatness if we have low expectations?”

To which my softer voice replies, “Because greatness isn’t complex. It is simple in its honesty. Lower expectations don’t change the bar for doing – they change the feeling of doing.”

When my pen touches paper with grippy expectations of performance for others, my right shoulder blade elevates and the left side of my skull tightens. Flattens. Battens down against the potential of judgment. The inevitable individual interpretation that I invite by putting me out to be seen. And I can clog up there. When my focus is on “What will they all think? How will they all interpret this? Will it be good enough for them?” the system slows to a crawl. Gears grind. Words are choppy and thick.

And there is more.

When I side step gently around the circular window of this moment, I can see more.

The basics. Food, water, shelter, rest, movement, breath, love. When these foundational elements are present for the ebbing and flowing desires of my Self, clarity abounds. But there is no exact ratio for clarity as I am a dynamic being in a dynamic world. And there are very clear distractions to its innate simplicity.

“YOU’VE MEDITATED FOR 58 DAYS STRAIGHT!” my meditation timer informs me. It praises me and allows me to feel ALL that I have accomplished. On surface level, I pishaw. “That counter is of no matter to me.” my ultra spiritual corner of self says through downturned, half slit eyes. Meanwhile, another side of me fluffs up my rooster like chest feathers for all the world to see. Because I’ve basically won meditation if I’ve sat for 58 days in a row. Right?

And then my timer turns on me.

One day it gives me accolades and praise of capitals and bigger numbers. Tens digits AND ones digits!!! Magnificence!

Then life occurs. A 36 hour migraine. I miss a day.

And the world ends.

…………………………………………

No, not really.

Instead, the timer count resets.

“You have meditated for 1 day.”

I feel the clench as I stare downward at the screen on that reset day. The gut stab of “What? You wimp to bow out yesterday because of a migraine! What have YOU accomplished now?”

Ah. There it is. The count of the consecutive days that I think matters not. It matters. It equals accomplishment. Please know that I have full understanding that accomplishment has the potential to be awesome and motivating. But when it runs outside of my awareness, ACCOMPLISHMENT feels heavy and dense.

And that grippy, dense, rigid metric is not how I feel the best of me. Remember the talk of simplicity and dynamism in how basic needs ebb and flow? Well, in the mystery and exploration of that dynamism lies sweet, awaiting joy.

Joy is lighter. It is more pervasive. Spreading. Sparkling like water in early morning sunlight. Joy is not necessarily laughter or intense happiness. But it is embracing what is present in the given moment. Joy is sitting and breathing in quiet for 10 minutes with my husband at 6 a.m. because we are alive. Joy is getting to help others move better when I go to work. Joy is the gift of crazy in my house full of five beings and two cats. Joy is the freedom to write of my own heart.

Joy is the reset of my meditation timer from 58 consecutive days to

1 day.

Joy is the opportunity to start anew in every moment of every day.

“The secret to happiness is low expectations.”

Breathing. Sitting. Writing. Moving. Being.
Simplicity.

Be ever so well,
Rachel