Author: embodyedtides

A poem each for my children. In the season of Gemini, I will write.

Unknowing

Observance not 
out of any obedience,
rather in broad witness and 
absorption.

Her own unpacking then,
     and carefulness,
(not to be confused with timidness)
after which she lights fires.

Head cocked.
One shoulder lowers and the other finds an ear.
Golden locks drape longer on one side.
Her furrow deep and procured.

Once she sees the thematics:
     “Why?  How?”
Questions and shifting gears.

Continue this way, dear Bean.

Spend your life
unknowing, please.
Ask always (even & especially of me)
the terms
the reasons
the howcomes,
so that we may come to unknow, too.

It’s funny in recall
that she moved so little in the womb.
As if her presumed absence
meant exhaustion or wrongness.

When perhaps it was merely rest
for the mastery.

Jigsaw

He fits into my body like
the way my thumb and fingers
grip the handle
of a warm cup of coffee.
He looks longingly 
     up at me,
and I drink him in.

Head resting
into the nook of my left arm
and shoulder.
My other hand catching his sacrum
(his legs are so long, now).

We exhale together.

I inhale and I can smell him —
that mixture of stale sleep
and tanned skin.

“I’ll always care about you,”
he says.
The dimple on his cheek is carved out.

“I will always care about you, too.”

His slightly rounded belly and flat navel
     rises and falls
as he seems to sink lower into me.
The way (it seems so long ago)
that he was sunken into
and growing within the cavern of my body.

Soothing him ever so warmly,
     hand over t-shirt.
I’d feel his kicks then
but it was just “hello.”
His words pierce me now,
but it is just his love.

How early 
did we arrange like puzzle pieces?

It is Mother & Son
who try and tether this game
for a stretch of time,
to the backdrop of gray mornings.
Quiet, early hours before anyone else stirs.

Who knows what day it is?

What week of the year, or month?

Is it still 2020??

These questions are part-facetious, part-serious. WHO KNOWS AND CAN THEY TELL ME.

Today — well it was a day — and it was another one of those really challenging parenting days. Specifically the morning. BECAUSE WE’RE STILL HOMESCHOOLING WHICH IS RIDICULOUSLY DIFFICULT.

My daughter, goddess-bless-her, has decreased her threshold of online attention from 60 minutes to 20 (at best). Who can blame her? No blame to be had, anyhow. I mean, blame would be the easy way out, but the punchline is that there IS NO WAY OUT.

I sit in the ‘quiet’ office room “A” for today; soft music playing on my computer, the hum of the dryer in the room adjacent, stompings of dog and kiddo feet above me, and the whirr of lawnmowers mowing outside.

Earlier today it was office room “B” in our master bed, propped up pillows and comforters for the ultimate makeshift desk and a lone sconce turned on for daylight support.

I think there’s office “C” somewhere, but I haven’t found it.

What’s your quarantine situation? Do you want to share? How can I help?

Thus, the nature of psychotherapy in telemedicinal times. My collective grief and struggle and endurance in this marathon is more similar to my clients perhaps than ever before. I’ve shared sentiments at times with other thirty-somethings in the “where were you when 9/11 happened?” kind of way as I suspect my parents’ generations ask of one another about JFK and MLK, Jr.

Meanwhile, my daughter can also tell all about Lincoln’s assassination like she was living in the late 1800s. SCHOOL.

What do we take from all of this? The NOT KNOWING BUT DYING TO KNOW dualities.

That wonderment in itself is the ultimate paradox.

A few clients have been seeking some reflection prompts, and I’ve shared a mix of what I read from others, have joined in writing (thanks Molly Caro May), and felt earnestly from a visceral, soulful tether in my body.

HOW DOES YOUR BODY WHISPER?

How has your body been screaming?

Are you paying mind or attention? Is there tension?

Is life requesting you effort greatly or can you effort-less?

Here. Still. WITH YOU. Always.

Friday was a strange day. A weird day. I mean it was ‘fine.’ Okay, it was a harder day than most.

I find myself doing that (see above). Trying to soften the difficulties by putting ‘weirdness’ in their place. I can say “it was a hard day” without self-shaming, right?

Anyhow . . . the hardship was finding myself lost in the hours of the morning. I have actually really been enjoying these slower wake-ups during quarantine. My husband and I alternate who arises first to feed and let out the pups, as well as feed and tolerate the humans. It’s mainly every other day, tit-for-tat if you will, and Friday was his turn.

The funny thing about these social-distancing mornings is that when I am not responsible for an early a.m. yoga class or early-rising client, I sleep in. Now it’s not like the 12 or 1 p.m. kind-of-sleep-ins that I might have encountered as a teen or twenty-something in college. But it’s still a nice, loafing kind of time, arousing about 8:30 or so. And as a parent to youngins, I will take it absolutely if that means my kids have been awake for more than two hours already(!)

By the time on Friday that it was 11:30, and I was to venture out to my office (which I am only using sparingly for Telehealth sessions, and it’s just me in there, so keeping it clean is pretty simple), I asked myself: “Just where did the morning go?”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing I suppose, just so odd to notice there were three hours between waking up and right now. What did I do with myself?”

I wonder: Was it disassociation? Sheer memory loss? Distraction?

I recess back into the first half of Friday . . . Two cups of coffee, a little journaling and oracle card-pulling. Asking my daughter to get off her iPad adventures to log into the computer to start online learning. Rumination of something or many things. It’s now 9:45. I notice I’m not very hungry (odd) and decide to get a short workout in before I commute to my space.

Meet 10:15. See? Right there. Don’t know where that half hour went.

I climb the upstairs (to actually get into a bra if I am to burpee, jump-jacks, or push some ups ) and at the top of the steps I see my son’s face in the mirror of his room as simultaneously I hear a crash!

Tears. Rosy cheeks. A hunched over, retracting upper body.

“Aw, was that your building that fell?” (Internally: please don’t cry.)

“Yes. Wahhhhhh!”

(I was so close to getting my clothes changed.)

“It sounded like a loud crash, must have been a big tower!” (couldn’t have happened just 5 minutes from now when your Papa was available, huh?)

Sniff, sniff. “Yeah.” Fumes.

I exhale, here.
Step into his doorway and crouch down.

“Would you like a hug?” (make it quick, Cutie Pie.)

Shakes head ‘No’ while walking towards me.
Sweet, tight embrace. Salt falling on my shoulders.

“This must be so frustrating.”

Shakes head ‘Yes’ and cries louder.
Tighter hug, and Son pats my back as if to console me while I hold him. (I love when he does this.)

“I’m here, Puppy.” (I’d really like to be here and also get to the basement to sweat . . .) “Would you like help rebuilding?”

Defeatedly: “Noooooo! I can’t just rebuild it!”

Pausing.

“Well . . . maybe, Mama . . . (wipes salt from cheeks), you can be the helper and I can be the builder . . . (tries not to smile). I can tell you which blocks to pick up and give me . . . (makes eye contact to check in), and you can be my helper as I build it.”

(Shit.)

“Of course, baby.”

So we build. We create a conga line of assortment and responding to my son asking, “Can you pass me the blue one? No, Mama — this blue one.” As he selects the one he meant, then hands it to me, only to give it right back to him in the same breath. Yes, it was as tedious as it sounds.

And it was a magical, too.

That presence I was feeling. That releasing of all my other expectations in the whir of the morning as I focused on what was right in front of me. A conscious choice to be there with him, rather than run away or fix.

It had me all teary and by the time that he was complete with his new structure. His pride shined. His sister also joined us and asked if she could be a helper, too.

11:00. I didn’t have time in that moment after to workout and then shower and then get enough of my face made up to be ‘video-chat presentable’ for clients. I had to get into the rinse-off, throw a decent top and nice scarf on for accommodation and worry about getting food organized to be nourished for the afternoon.

By the time I landed down to my kitchen, Husband had whipped up a bite for me (it was 11:15, why wasn’t I hungry yet?). Tuna melt on an everything bagel oh my.

“Thanks, babes.”

“Everything okay?” he quizzed.

I really had to sit for a moment. Felt like an eternity for what was maybe 40 seconds or so. “I guess.

I go on, “. . . it’s like there’s a void in the way of handling the time, and then the time wanders anyways. I don’t know where it goes, then I set goals to be ‘productive’ or ‘entertain’ in my routine, and it trips up in the moments that matter. What I just had with Son upstairs was so truly lovely and important, and I felt like the kind of Mother I always aspire to be. And I still want all of my alone time back. My own ways of navigating myself back. All these elements of mindfulness and presence when they show up like that — I know that’s it — and it’s hard right now.”

He waits. As he does.
Because he knows to wait with me.

“And I am truly grateful for it, too. Really. I want those moments like I just had with Son. Where I attuned into the importance of what mattered right-then-and-there. I’m so proud of them for handling this the way that they have.” I exhale.

He waits. As he does.

“I just don’t want you to be on an island by yourself.” He responds.

Cue ugly crying.

The island. The many islands of ourselves and out of our experiences that makes me reflect now on the animated film “Inside Out” (which, if you haven’t seen, head onto whatever media platform you can to go and see it this very moment. Seriously, just come back to this post, I’d understand). Reflecting on the beauty of holding ourselves and importances in a coexisting kind of way. Not out of qualifying, not out of hierarchy. The feeling that there is actually more strength in shared moments, even when they conflict. Especially when.

For Husband to have identified that I was on this island, was floundering off of it in the waters of my own inner-narrative-muck, was perceptive. And, his daily commitment to join me is no less surprising 16 years into our relationship. It’s the kind of person he is. My own nervous system is still weary. I, too, am tackling the variety of emotional terrain of the coronavirus. It’s not that I expect that to be any different, though it’s by no means easy.

Clients, I see you.
Friends, I see you.
Family, you know.

Who’s on your island?

Who’s with you in the boat that you’re trying to maneuver?

I hope you have someone. A first-mate, or maybe several. I also hope that you can be the companion for someone or many others.

It’s going to be a while until we chart into anything more familiar, and I’d prefer us all to use our humanity as the compass for whatever that territory is moving forward.

Take those exhales. Let go of some expectations. Revel in the presence of yourself and partners and pets and little ones. Come back to yourself, to those islands, as often as you can.

It’s here. This novel coronavirus. It’s swept areas of the globe all over, some in plateau and others in decline. Some just beginning to ramp up.

As the conditions fluctuate, so do the responses. The reactions. Sharp and harsh. Soft and apathetic. Neutral and dismissive. It’s wide-ranging reflection to witness. Perhaps not all that different based on your own experience with oppression. In this way, I am reminded of one of Brené Brown’s most poignant quotes: “What we don’t need in the midst of struggle is shame for being human.”

Have you entered into the judgment zone? I’ve tipped my toes in there, too. It’s hard not to as I walk around an isolated, quarantining neighborhood and observe various behaviors of families within just a few blocks of where I live. Lest COVID-19 be any less deprecating, social media and 24-hour news outlets are already present in an incessant way.

And still I can recognize that we’ll each be experiencing this slow-down in a unique way. Personally within familial & cultural containers. Not to mention academic, occupational, and medical ones, too. How we cope with the losses and grievances of being secluded from what “was normal” is truly abnormal. Unprecedented. There cannot be expectations of how to handle much when it’s never been handled in most ways before.

In steps to the ring, Compassion. Holding compassion earnestly for ourselves as a measure of caring. For self, for others. Noticing first-hand what our thoughts might be. Our responses might be. Treat it perhaps like the ordinances of wearing a mask on your faces in public, or staying home: it’s not just for the safety of yourselves, it is necessity for the safety of others. Optioning in for compassion is like creating safety in emotional tethers we have with one another.

I find that compassion, much like resilience, is not automatically inherited at birth. It is something we must encounter in order to cultivate ongoing. Something that can absolutely be fostered and nurtured when seemingly lost or absent. I believe that we are born out and full of love, though compassion is arguably defined by our relating (suffering) with others. Thus we need that primal connection to best implement and practice compassion.

I’ve attached a brief meditation video around Loving Kindness here, of my own comprehension and spirit. Feel free to look up others’ insights for reference including Jack Kornfield, Tara Brach, Eckhart Tolle, Jon Kabat-Zinn . . . the list goes on.

However you find yourselves during this unique season of worldly shifts, be kind. Starting within, branching and extending outward when you can, as much as you can. Here if you need some support with it. Peace.

To those in isolation.

To those disconnected from extended family, friends, and coworkers.
To those living alone.
To those living in domestically unsafe circumstances. 

To those who had to return home from schools & colleges.
To those who have had to continue learning online, taking enrichment courses.
To those who are just children. To all the parents.

To those who are elderly. Living in chronic pain or with illnesses that require them to make appointments. Who fear getting themselves to the markets for food.
To those who are afraid.
To those who cannot come home.
To those with other autoimmune, respiratory, or otherwise compromised conditions. 

To those who are lonely. Who want to date and cannot physically do that right now.
To those whose proms and graduations are cancelled.
To those who have had to postpone weddings, honeymoons, baby showers, and funerals.
To those pregnant and unsure if they’ll be alone in the delivery room.

To those financially strapped. Who are still working. Who don’t have the chance to work.
To those whose student loans aren’t yet on hold.
To those who still have to pay rent, a mortgage, and childcare.
To those figuring out how to get food on the table.

To those without accessible transportation. There are still homeless. There always are, and they are often those who have never known what day it was. 

To those that must medically be supported and take themselves to the pharmacy.
To those grieving. Those in a space of loss never imagined, outside of what might also now be the deaths of those beloved to them.

To those in healthcare. On the front lines. Pharmacists. Doctors & PAs. Nurses. Respiratory therapists. Speech pathologists. OTs. PTs. EMTs.
To those in our military. The reserves called upon last-minute to up & leave what might feel like safety in your home.
To those in politics. Making difficult choices, sometimes without your own choice in the matter. Mayors. Elected officials. Superintendents. 

To those in media. Radio. Television. Scientists. Those who need to report the numbers, no matter how devastating.
To those in education. To the teachers, aides, daycare workers, administrators. Your presence isn’t more missed than right now.  
To those in mental health. Therapists. Social workers. Managing the increased psychological warfare as we collectively endure this trauma.

To those small-business owners. The self-employed. Those that had to layoff thousands of workers to attempt to stay afloat.
To those deemed “essential.” Grocery stores, gas stations, cleaning staff who protect us daily and receive such little praise.
To those deemed “non-essential.” Especially when many of us would say otherwise. 

To those making art. Keep doing so — please.
To those supporting movement. Keep doing so — please.
To those photographing. Writing. Documenting. Please continue.

To all those who are helpers. We need you.
To those immobilized by anxiety and panic and depression and your body’s natural way of responding to something unprecedented – that’s okay.

To all of you.

I see you.
I wish you safety.
I wish you well.

– Carly

I wasn’t sure how to begin this blog post. I’ve been reflecting, worrying, meditating on, curious about, and ignoring a lot with regards to the flurry of what seems to be quite present all over the world: COVID-19.

As we access the world 24/7 these days, and in part due to increased technologies & social media, there is a boost of expectation to the phenomena of immediate gratification. The “being in the know” kind of expectation. Since it’s a claimed pandemic at this point, the Coronavirus naturally stirs up many feelings and situations for everybody in our schools, at our jobs, and in our shared humanity.

One of the most interesting and viable pieces of information I have found with this so far: slow down. How fitting, no? Consider an alternative to the chaos. In yoga, we may refer to this idea of cultivating the opposite as pratipaksha-bhavana. It derives out of Patanjali’s Sutras; as adverse thoughts (in Sanskrit referenced as vikalpa) enter our mind, can we pause and make room to observe them, rather than A) jump to conclusion, B) jump to changing them, or C) eradicate them outright without witnessing their impact.

The more we breathe, extend compassion, or tap into the energy of our systems with intention, things such as frenetic worry, anxiety, heart rate, speech, and body movements actually reduce. They lessen their intensity as we ‘simply’ draw awareness to them. A slower system can be a stronger system.

So, I began to absorb this idea, and note the kind of proximity to others we’re being encouraged to take. “Find social distance,” they say. Though isn’t it ironical that the increased individualistic nature of our population and work seems to be leading to scarcity in supplies? A sort of ‘fend-for-yourself’ attitude present at neighborhood pharmacies and grocery stores? Have a toilet paper stockpile? Someone you know might. And what of it? Are we not willing to share? Are we not willing to bridge the gap in community by staying in touch?

Physical distance with medical illness transmittable through coughs and sneezes of course necessitates some distance, yes. But lest we forget that the separation of how we are feeling in the process by isolating from each other might be more unnerving. Can you call your friends and check in with them? Can you text a loved one and let them know you’re safe? Can you be mindful of how you interact at work and take precautions with kindness?

This brings me to the kerning process. Kerning refers to the literal spacing in typography, between letters and words in print, to elicit a visually pleasing experience. There’s a graphic, artistic kind of nature to it. As you’ve read from me before, I do not proclaim to be a true writer, and I didn’t know what this was until recently. However I knew that I wanted to express an acknowledgment of how our increased panic is closing in on opportunities for peace. Sensing how the news is splitting us, might we inhale, wash our hands, exhale and rest in between? Can we afford ourselves the grace of availability with awareness?

In my own vacillation here, I am trying to recognize the space. I plan to move forward with it, trying to identify and make room in my chest, my breaths, my thoughts. Like we’ve explored together: take what you need, leave the rest. If you find shoulders up by your ears, receive a full round of breath and visualize a kind of soft movement downward. Roll your head side to side nice and slowly. Feel free to do this with eyes open or closed.

We may not have much control in this (as with actually anything), but know that you’re not alone.

In and out.
In and out.
In and out.

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.”

Mark Twain

I traveled overseas recently. To India! From my ‘neck of the woods’ that is quite actually halfway around the globe. My main goal was to unplug, followed closely by holding myself accountable in one key aspect while abroad: to cultivate a practice of feeling small in the world.

Stateside, I find this kind of smallness frequently in the wilderness. Woods. Oceans. Meadows. This is not new, nor unique to me, as many would describe their own interconnectedness to Mama Earth; “in every walk with Nature one receives far more than he seeks” (John Muir). Planted in a scape of vast terrain at dusk, looking to the glimmer of stars revealing themselves, does this not highlight that anything earthly is simply humbling to experience? Have you found this, too?

“Small” regarding this post, pertains to a sense of awe or auspiciousness. An awareness of other perspectives — of what and who else exists on this planet. Of other people and landscapes. I feel small locally, too, as I can take myself into Philadelphia neighborhoods which each instill a unique cultural tradition, cuisine, or language. Whenever I take myself outdoors and off the concrete, I feel embraced by a spiritual ‘unknowingness’ that resonates larger than myself. This to me, is feeling small.

Now, I observe that this view does well expose my privilege as a cis-gender, white, Northeastern-raised, middle-class American. Of course it’s easier for me to feel safely small in these kinds of places and experiences. I am a person who is able to move about in any neighborhood and consume the variety because there is no other determined threat exhibited by my existence. Not while walking down city streets or along trails of the Wissahickon am I monitored or in question for being there. I am not marginalized.

Thus to be in India as a privileged person, steeped in the honor of attending a friend’s wedding, and immersing into the culture of family & friends who performed such a special matrimonial celebration (over several days and nights), the kaleidoscope of this “small” feeling felt magnified. The ranges of emotions! The mental & energetic unpacking that continues two weeks out from my return home.

Writing felt like an apt way to tease out some of it. And it honestly wasn’t until I began this post that I recognized my “feeling small” is still equipped by my privilege. What a block I have to it, sometimes. The means I had to travel around and explore submergence is notable and not taken for granted. How so many millions live, far differently than I do, witnessed throughout my time there. How so many eat. How so many work. Educate. Are educated.

I’d also say this: the yoga that I experienced there was 99% off of my mat. There was one night in a hotel room after arriving to Udaipur, that I moved into some physical forms and worked a little pranayama (breath practice). But the overarching “small feeling?” Its presence, at times overt and other times nuanced? That was the yoga. That was the travel. The long plane rides and lengthier layovers. The interpersonal interactions and stupefied, transformative embrace of the fluctuating Yamas (restraints) & Niyamas (duties). In particular to me, observations to nonattachment and nongreed (Aparigraha), and the surrendering and offering up to an omnipotent, higher consciousness (Isvara Pranidhana).

Thank you, India, for your patience. Thank you, family, for yours.
Thank you to the travel that expanded my mind and centered my spirit.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about writing. About writing more diligently (whatever that means . . . more regularly?). Thinking about writing with one specific focus, or continuing on with my wide-ranging kind of lens. After a little reflection, what feels most apropos is to be in the ebb & flow from how my typing all began.

‘EmBodyed Tides,’ the name, came to me in a dream. You can read more about its manifestation in this old post. My son’s name also arrived in my sleep (before I was even pregnant!). Dreams and their symbols are wildly interesting to me, though definitely not my forte. Writing may not be, either. And yet, here I am.

What’s it like to challenge your frame of reference (aka self-talk) when encountering something new? Or something of great value to you which you only end up comparing to something or someone else? Do you question it consistently? Do you take the leap and play?

Perhaps it ties to the new calendar year. A seasonal shift in our bones that tucks us into the blankets of cold or bare trees, and asks of us, “Can you listen to yourself? Can you be quiet and discover what’s underneath all of your assumptions?“

My words for 2020 came to me in a state of reflection, too. More like a half-sleep. Courage. Expansion. I have visions of possible new ventures and offerings, though fear stares at me closely. She keeps the gaze steady and unwavering even as I look away from time to time. It’s not all bad, I suppose. Fear has acronyms.

False Evidence Appearing Real.
Forget Everything And Run.
Face Everything And Rise.

Taking time to be playful isn’t actually a very strong suit for me. Maybe it’s the way it feels so vulnerable and intangible. I certainly think I have imagination; my sisters and I would pretend for hours (days?) on end. Although they each seem to have continued on in their own kind of play & adventure in the hobbies that remain: L knits, S writes, A creates cunning stationary. Mom is into pottery. Pops writes poetry.

I used to take photos in high school. Pulling out my old Nikon for an upcoming trip, I didn’t even remember how to open it to add in manual film. Do they even have darkrooms in schools any more?

I took art classes as well, although not in college. I played sports and today I practice and facilitate yoga. Which for my physical and mental spirit is playful. Though what about creativity?

Hoping that the majority of you also get to tap into your creativity with insight, interests, and intrigue. If we do not, who will? Who will share this kind of joy with our generations to come? Creation likely inhabits imagination, which sustains innovation. Being artsy and/or creative is not just about placing colored pencil to paper. It’s about fabricating a fuller world. Write on.

I came across a Carl Jung quote recently: “Know all the theories, master all the techniques, but as you touch a human soul be just another human soul.”

A Swiss psychiatrist from the 20th century whose early career is linked to Psychoanalysis and Sigmund Freud, Jung differentiated himself in the world of Psychology after developing his work around collective unconscious, archetypes and dreams. His work is profoundly deep and thorough. I hope to dive more into his work in 2020.

It’s been a January-kind-of week with clients entering sessions processing some difficult family terrain post-holidays, as well as stressors around the media-impacted resolution expectations. I’ve always viewed a major part of my job as ‘fellow traveler,’ witnessing by proxy one’s experience and sitting alongside as they navigate these stories of their life. The narratives like, “I can’t believe Aunt so-and-so acted this way again,” or “each time I make a resolution, I’m bound to fail, but I do want to move towards something.”

It takes much patience to listen to one’s story and not interject. The “fixer” part in me still exposes herself from time to time and so I cull the image of a wise elder leaning the side of her face into her palm on the armrest, and I breathe. Mustn’t stop the flow of consciousness, here. Just look and feel this vibration as they come to their own insights – true beauty.

My clinical effectiveness is a familiar theme in supervision. He’ll gently inquire, “And does that client* want the tools that you’re suggesting?” I sink against the couch cushions. It’s a threat, at first. My chest rises and gut pits out and mental chatter quickens. “I always try to tell them to ‘take what they need and then leave the rest.'”

“I believe you mean that, Carly.”

He’s seeing more than me. He’s seeing into my process. He offers no other words, here. He’s patient.

My breath slows. I space my thoughts. “I wonder if she comes into therapy without an intent to change.“

This thought is heartbreaking to me. The chatter returns.

Why would someone come and see me over a period of a year if not to try and change their struggles? Everyone’s capable of change. People are good. People are resilient. People must want to change. Why am I charging this person if she tells me the same things over and over and — ?

He’s seeing more than me, again. He’s in my process. He offers patient words, here. “You’re with her, Carly.”

I’m with her. I am a fellow traveler on the ride of her life. I employ Narrative theory one week, with a dabbling of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy the next. We meditate together and I ask her how she kindly moves her body or if she’d like to implement a breath practice. We grieve her losses together. And not simply of those who have died but the parts of her that feel like they have died and we instead revive them, & invite them into the process. She gets angry and cries. She feels shame and spaces out. She acts like nothing bothers her. Everything is a bother.

I must simply be there with her.

On the other side of the room with my heart open. With my energy clear and exposed to the infliction of pain she endures. There may never be change.

And change is not the point. Not entirely.

I want to be able to support my clients wholeheartedly. I want to nurture a space that feels safe for them to discover what they need for their process. At times it will be a short-term number of hours together where they identify the importance of moving from A to B and forge their path succinctly. On other occasions it will be a gradual exploration of ups and downs and sideways stories that impact their daily living, for which they recognize patterns (or not) and move forward and backward or not at all.

I commit to being there with you. To enact as a fellow soul in this world. A world that often can feel unnerving or raw, solitary, confusing, infuriating or heart-wrenching. What I want matters a hell of a lot less, and this I am unlearning every day. Every session.

[*The above client is a compilation of several folx with whom I have worked over the last 6 years. I thank each of my clients for teaching me invaluable lessons such as soul-sitting.]

Have ever you noticed yourself saying something like the following:

“I am so mad…and what’s worse is that I’m so mad at the fact that I am mad.”

“It was so disappointing to hear my own kid say that about our house, when there are so many things about our life that others don’t have.”

“Every time I think I’ve hit a stride, I wind up back here, feeling like I struggle.”

Sound familiar?  Ever find that something you say seems to contradict with another?  What if you had the permission in the apparent contradiction to actually have such sentiments co-exist?

From that first statement:  Let’s explore this idea of “being mad” as an inherent negative.  From where did this mindset originate?  Was feeling upset not allowed in your early/childhood home or experiences?  What other feelings weren’t allowed?

From the second statement:  My older child is 7.  We’re absolutely in the throes of her attending school and interacting with peers who (for example) financially share a wide range of experiences.  Some families we know have less than, some more.  My daughter and our family celebrate Christmas.  We will choose to decorate or gather with other family to a certain extent, which will look different than some of her friends.  If she comes home from school one day and utters a complaint to me that we didn’t get our tree early enough, or begs for certain gift, I’ve noticed I need to slow my reaction to ponder:  Is this greed or desire to belong?  Is this obliviousness to our opportunities or a 2^nd-grader’s capability of understanding?

For the third one:  Here’s the deal – it’s all practice.  Repetitive, and earnest.  Practice makes practice.

What I am getting at here, is that of course we have ebbs & flows in life. This is something we ‘know’ of in our minds and hear aplenty thanks to marketing efforts and romantic comedies that show some side-splitting monstrosity followed up by cheesy soundtracks and famous actors kissing a soft, hazy background. 

‘Knowing’ this in our minds, is a very different experience than feeling it in our hearts.  To embody these co-existing efforts is, often, tiresome.

~ You can feel mad, simply because you feel mad.  As much as you can feel happy or sad or ____ because you feel happy or sad or ____.  You do not need to wrap yourself in a shame cycle for feeling any specific kind of way.

~ Your kiddo can feel disappointed that her holiday is spent differently, as much as you can remind her that she is a Human, and that there is similarity in that with her peers, too.  Her call(s) for attention might manifest in different ways, and likely has less to do with the “stuff” in or not in your home, and more with the fact that she’s seeking validation in this life.

~ You can make progress which is non-linear.  (Most of it probably will be).  This is typical.  Some moments or minutes or days will feel light and benevolent.  Some will feel the opposite.  Sometimes your moments and minutes and days will contain a mix of the two (or several).  This is still typical.

Maybe your practice is an awareness and building up of tolerance to things coexisting.  Your practice may be noticing without judgment.  Observing without discernment.  Recognizing without defining a “why.”  It might be brand new, so start small.  The next time that you feel something which you usually perceive as a negative, simply state to yourself what you feel.  Or simply verbalize how it might feel – give it some texture or sensory-related identifiers.  Maybe you come up with just one way to describe it. (Eg: sharp, hot, dull, thick, scratchy, cold, loud, dense . . . )

Start with 1.  Eventually many things will be able to be recognized. 

Lots of things co-exist.  Take a look at our planet!  And I will be here for more ideas and tools if you are so interested in collaborating. Be kind and be well.