Five year old Nora is sitting at the piano.

Her Grandpa – my husband’s father – slowly makes his way down the stairs.

One careful step at a time, mindful foot after mindful foot,
he arrives in the sprawling basement.

Nora sits at the piano and presses,
one
careful
finger
after
the
other.
Plink.                                   Plink.                                   Plunk.

A classically trained pianist many moons ago, Grandpa stands beside her, one gnarled hand steadies him on the wall.

His walker waits at the top of the stairs.

“She’s got a soft touch, doesn’t she?” Grandma says from her perch across the room.

And more to himself than in reply, Grandpa muses with his eyes upon this little girl,
“She can hear what she’s playing.”

A silent echo bolds the air.
That echo hangs in the moment.
This freeze frame swallows the entire universe in it’s Truth.

She hears what she is playing.

His words. Those words.
They are the magic of a life.

When we can hear what we are saying.
When we can feel what we are playing.
When we can see what we are doing.

This music is sublime.

Shhh… quiet now.
Listen.

Well, friend, I did things a little differently this week. I popped my blog up on Elephant Journal. Because I‘m apparently in stretch mode and my burning ears are confirming as much.

if you’d be so kind, click here to read (it’s the same ol’ me, I promise). After you’re done, click the heart if you like it, pop it up on your facebook page, send it to a friend, or leave me a comment. (Geez that’s a lot of stuff they’re asking for… just one would be truly amazing.)

It’s a friggin’ humongous world out there.

Yipes.

Big gratitude to you as we walk together,
Rachel

p.s. Only you get Nora’s drawing… that’s for my favorite folks. mwah.

I know there are plenty of people who feel what they feel and think what they think and that’s that. Then there are those of us who have an extra layer to what we feel and think.

We’re really good at watching the world and taking it all in.
And we’re excellent at comparing ourselves to it.
And we’re exceptional at making ourselves wrong because we see all those other ways.

Because our eyes are wide open to the world out there.
While there’s something in here that we’re sure is different.

“I’m tired, others seem so energized.”
“I’m confused, others seem so focused.”
“I’m slow, others are so fast.”
“I’m doing so little, others are doing so much.”

It’s a twisty filter through which we can watch the world.
Tricky stuff, this is.

So.
Just for this moment, give yourself permission.

Permission to be
confused
tired
overwhelmed.

Permission to
slow down.

Permission to
breathe.

Permission to be
angry
righteous
judgy.

Permission to
be happy
joyful
silly.

Permission to be…

what?

What is it that you need to give yourself permission for?
What is it that you’re already feeling but you’re fighting?

Say it three times to yourself with your word.

Permission to be…
Permission to be…
Permission to be…

You have permission to be ALL of you.
And I’m so glad that you are.

Take really good care,
Rachel

Ruthie turns 8 today. It feels floaty high to remember her torpedo launched freight train birth. But that’s another story for another time.

Today, I get to watch her practice playing with all that she is –
shadow and light braided together,
a one of a kind stepper on this ground we call earth.
(Just like me. Just like you.)

And although magical to me, this day did not start out feeling magical to my son.

It’s so very hard to feel that undoubtedly a sucky situation will never change, isn’t it? Especially with someone who we love and so very much WANT to enjoy and be around. But instead, we find ourselves judgy and miserable when they do the same old same old and we react with the same old same old. It’s some heavy quicksand this roundabout we ride on. And although I know we as grownups may have more layers to our relationships, there is much to learn from beginner’s mind.  Watch this quick story about John and his sister and how he found his own way toward less judgmental and more present.

Watch. See. Feel what you feel in response. And notice, how does it feel to be human with him?

And with me. And with each other.

I’m grateful we are here together. Bumbling along, it’s good to travel with you.

Take care,
Rachel

Doh.

I knew this part would be bumpy but holy smacks. It’s like for the past year, our little family of 5 was orbiting the normal world (aka “the pandemic pause”), looking down at the stunning and heartbreaking thing called earth, and now the past 10 days we’re getting a “smack smack smack” cartoon slap to the cheek as we blaze through re-entry to the atmosphere.

Today’s highlight reel of proportionally representative mess comes by way of our two cats and includes, A) not just a single turd but a rogue pile of poop, B) a verifiable bucket of pee (one of the cats got stuck in the basement last night), C) morning vomit, and D) afternoon puke that trailed a good 18 inches from wood onto carpet.

ugh yuck wow blech.

And it’s fitting.

Because as I’ve said, right about now, re-entry into the atmosphere of “our normal world” is slimy slippery, rough and tumbly. Our little spaceship’s bouncing off some everyday rubble and flipping flames into the space around us. There’s enough human emotional biohazard in this house for the well deserved title of shitstorm.

Well, break out your umbrella, my friend, because pieces of my life have no silos. So, you’ve already seen and will continue to see me bump scraping along in my blog as I try on some new (for me) things in the coming weeks and months.

Instead of doing the u-turn here on the page, check out this video (which does NOT include anything about cats) and how I injected a quick dose of ease into my day. Do it, feel what you feel and leave a comment about 1 thing you notice.

Until we chat again, I’ll be over here, cleaning up cat puke, poop and all the human emotional detritus in between. Well, to be fair, I can’t really clean up the emotional detritus but I can hang out with it. (While I also thank the inventors of Lysol wipes and Resolve for their worthwhile contributions to my life.)

Click here to watch and remember to comment with what you notice.

Take good care,
Rachel

My friend’s text to me says, “How are you holding up with the birds fleeing the nest?”
(Translation: “How are you doing with the kids back in school for the first time in almost a year?”)

I stare at the screen, thumbs at the ready, tilt my head and look up toward the ceiling (is the answer up there?). A thought springs forward and I nod to myself, thumbs a-movin’ now,

“Kind of confused and peaceful and more confused,” I say.

“Bahaha! Sounds about right,” she replies.

Yup. It does.

This week I’ve,
walked my kindergartener to her classroom for the first time,
jetted home to grab her forgotten computer and returned to school,
climbed back in the van and let myself burst into tears,
pulled into my garage 5 minutes later and allowed the dam to burst yet again,
watched a mental slideshow of my babes and toddlers run across the back of my closed eyes,
walked (and danced) with a dear friend in mid-morning down the greenway,
cringed at the throbbing of a headache,
giggled with a different dear friend on a different mid-morning walk,
marveled at the quiet in my living room,
listened to my husband in awe of his own growth,
talked with client friends about our work together over the years,
watched my children explode in overwhelm and exhaustion,
snuggled into my couch with the cat upon my lap,
witnessed brave women share their truth,
tossed my hands skyward at the icy weather forecast and kids now home tomorrow,
choked up to share my life’s story with a weekly reflective group,
smiled at the moment of sitting here, thinking of you sitting there.

This week, I’ve felt,
grief,
joy,
wonder,
jealousy,
confused,
not knowing,
silly,
pride,
fear,
hope.

This week, I’ve felt my aliveness. And it is bold, rich, stunning technicolor.
This 1 minute video is a mere snapshot of that aliveness.
Watch my eyes, see my face, listen to my voice, see the space around me…

Practice being with one another. It is a skill like no other.

And how very grateful I am to be with you.
Take good care,
Rachel

Hello to you on this January day. I’ve posted a short meditation video that’s inspired by this blog. Click here if you need a downshift right away or, read first for context, and watch it next.

We spend a lot of time at my parent’s lake house. A lot of time. During summer visits, one of my kids’ favorite things to do is to “Bomb PopPop” which equates to jumping into the lake near my father and splashing the heck out of him. Cannonballs, belly flops, jackknifes, off the boat, off the dock, off the huge trampoline tube. This is THE game of choice and has been since my children were barely toddlers in bulky life jackets that had them waddling toppling left and right.

I swear – a few days prior to each lake trip, at least one child calls up my dad and says, “PopPop!!! I’m going to BOMB you!!!”

And my dad laughs in a Santa-esque boomy way and says,
“No no no, you’re not going to get me!!!”

But you know they do. Every time.

And they each have their own way of doing it. John takes off running as if to a starter gun and then sets off a geyser explosion. Ruthie is all about the technique as she goes for catching the most air and the crispest, sleekest entry into the water. And for Nora, I swear I see the water shiver and giggle at her full force launch and S*P*L*A*S*H.

Concentric ripples bubbling outward.

And for every time they jump in,
they must climb out to start again.
(Because no way is just one “bomb PopPop” enough, right?)

Take a big breath, run, jump, splash, surface, swim, climb out.
Repeat.

huh… I see a connection here.
I feel a connection here.

You see, many people think meditation is about “quieting” the mind or “stopping thinking”, but those words don’t quite cover it.

Instead, the practice of meditation is the practice of choosing Now.
Again and
again and
again.

It’s the practice of choosing what you want to focus on instead of letting the loudest voice in your head (or loudest thought or emotion) hijack you with its flavor of the day / hour / minute / second.

It’s the practice of perhaps beginning with your focus on the breath. And then over and over wandering away from the breath, jumping into the bottomless waters of the well of creativity (also known as the brain stuff) and then realizing you are, in fact, underwater. And so, you swim upward, climb out and stand on the dock again.
With your breath. To begin again.

For a minute. Or a second. Or even a milli-second.

Before off you go once more flying into the waters and losing yourself in swirling, twirling, curling thoughts and wonderments and ruminations and worries and fantasies and “what if”s” and “how in the world’s” and “oh no’s…”.

You see, the water of the mind stuff is not a bad place to be. It’s colorful there and full of glorious imagination.

But coming up for breath is helpful and even necessary. If my kiddos didn’t come up for breath and out onto solid dock, then they couldn’t continue the game of bombing PopPop.

Big breath, run, jump, SPLASH, surface, swim, climb out. Repeat again.

Breathe, begin thinking, get lost in those deep thought waters, get SUPER lost in them, catch yourself somewhere along the way, return to the breath…
on and on and on and on.

A million times we go under. And a million times we come up for air.

Ah, the air and ah, the water.
Ah, my mind and ah, this place of real and alive life.
The contrast awakens my senses and renews me.
For this choice and for this remembering, I am grateful.

Now, click here for the short video meditation and to perhaps feel how little time it can take to feel better than you do right now. (Or perhaps to feel what right Now actually means.)

Take good care. And swim well, my friend.
Rachel