Wintering in the country cottage

Wintering looks and feels different than all other years. This go around we are nesting in a newer home, learning its quirks and cozying into each of its snug corners. I have begun to refer to it as the country cottage. The amenities are vastly different from the city. It sits on two acres across from a cow pasture that disappears into a sloping ridge. The cows are a welcomed sight each morning and I find myself anticipating in which paddock they will be wandering each day, always hoping they will be in the one closest to the house. The Neigbor says there is a donkey at the next farm over. I haven’t seen him yet, but the Neigbor assures me I will hear his mercurial braying before long.

To the south, which can be viewed from both the porch and the windows of the living room, is the Bald Mountain range. Snow fell recently and created a scenic contrast of light and shadow that made their appearance even more stark. Some days the mountains are clear and demanding, other days they are obscured by cloud cover or an approaching storm. The golden hour is a special treat because the wooded ridge turns a glowing shade of burgundy for a few moments by some peculiar trick of the light. The swath of dormant trees can be quite dull and gray in all other winter lighting, but during the golden hour they seem to radiate with warmth.

The back yard meanders up to a brush line that separates the property from another farm. The brush is a bustling home and ecosystem. Birds of all varieties are in constant motion, especially in the mornings. A quintet of geese bellows overhead, “harsh and exciting” in the words of Mary Oliver. Deer take refuge from the wind by the trees. Their eyes beam back at me like pairs of flash lights when I pull into the driveway after dark. A barn cat was spotted two days ago prowling around the brush for sport or a snack. Perhaps both. Even in winter, the thicket is teeming with life. And I anticipate more vitality and more movement with a looming spring.

My life has been characterized by an uncanny stillness since graduating. But then I reconsider the word choice of "uncanny". Don’t I know that even when life appears motionless, how much is pulsing just beneath the surface, regenerating and incubating? I watched the Secret Garden recently and to Mary, the snobby high-born girl, Dickon, an animal whisperer and old soul gently educates her on the nature of the garden during winter. “It’s not dead, miss. It’s wick”.  It's wick here, too. One day there could be a row of raised flower beds holding ranunculus and dahlias in the back yard. Perhaps a compost pile will sit next to them and nourish them. Maybe one day there could be a bee hive buzzing with life and full of sweet honey. But not now. For now these thoughts are all potential and perfection. The land is as wonderful as it ever was or what it even could be as it exists right now, in a state of wintering.

Molting - seasonal reflections

Hermit crabs had a big moment at the turn of the millennium. Or, at least they did for me as a budding tween. As far as I could tell, they were often motionless, but oh the thrill to watch one scurry across the sand in their tank. Once, in an overindulgent moment, I tried to play with a hermit crab and a beanie baby at the same time. It ended in a mishap that led the hermit crab to lock his claw onto my index finger, pinched in a death grip for hours. Or at least that’s how it felt to a budding tween. Honestly, it was probably only a few minutes. Time felt different in adolescence.

As I tended to my hermit crabs, I learned they needed to have different size shells scattered throughout their habitat. As they would grow, they would need to leave a shell that had become too tight and stifling in favor of a roomier fit. If they remained in that old shell, they would die. In the process of shedding the old shell, they become completely defenseless and nude for a time before situating into their new, larger shell. Molting is one of the most vulnerable processes an animal can go through. They enter a liminal space of stillness and waiting.

It’s a metaphor I’ve been chewing on this week as I ponder personal shifts out of old homes and into new ones. I'm in the process of selling the first home I've ever owned and it's set to close any day. I really struggled with the idea of letting it go earlier in the summer. I cried, I tenderly stroked the walls, senseless things, really... but I couldn't imagine parting with it. I was feeling like a little hermit crab in between shells.

Meanwhile, a similar living metaphor is happening before our eyes: the autumn leaves are falling. Brilliant shades from mustard to tangerine to flaming crimson hang on to their twigs, but just barely. Many of their brethren have already fallen to the ground. Because water expands when frozen, tender leaf cells on deciduous trees would rupture if they remained on the tree and be incapable of photosynthesis. Without shedding the leaves, such a tree would be stuck with thousands of unproductive appendages and no way to make food. Attached as we may feel to something, what good does it do us if it could stand between us and survival?

I'm very close to completing my Master's degree in clinical mental health counseling. This path came to me unexpectedly. But now that I'm here, I can't imagine much else that would better suit me. It's been quite the adventure returning to university in my 30s. Receiving higher education is such a privilege that's hard to appreciate as a teenager. In light of that, I'm a little sad to see it come to an end. Simultaneously, I'm relieved to be returning to the workplace. I, like the deciduous tree, have needs to be productive. I'm embracing the duality of both feelings.

So you see, just as the hermit crab sheds it shell, and just as the maple tree releases its golden leaves, we too jettison aspects of ourselves. This is tough stuff, and I offer no short cuts or wise advise. The only way out is through. We simply honor the grief of change and the promise of a tomorrow that is as satisfying as the goodness of today.

The Feeling of Sound Healing

Mindfulness, meditation, contemplation, and prayer are all words that can be used to describe similar internal experiences. Each of these are methods to get quiet long enough to tune into how you're really feeling. They are a direct line of access to the internal guidance system known as your intuition. These practices provide a stable ground to converse with your Higher Self, the Transcendent Other, the Divine, or whatever other specific term that resonates with you. Ultimately these moments of solitude help us tap into a greater sense of well being.

We live in a world that isn't designed to easily navigate meditative states. It's far easier to be distracted by external demands and not-demands alike. Aren't many of us in some way a slave to the tiny magical boxes we call smart phones? Perhaps there is an opportunity to invite more balance into our lives by stepping back from the clamor of requests from work, family, social media, and whatever else is hollering for our attention to tune into the more subtle summons of the intuition.

The trouble is that getting started is daunting. How does one actually slow thoughts down long enough to commune with the inner reality? Invariably other thoughts slip in, co-opting sincere attempts to unplug and ground. Even advanced meditators struggle with quieting the mind from time to time. It becomes more accessible with practice... and the right tools. Consider, for example, all the ways one could mow a lawn. You could cut the grass by hand with scissors. It would take a long time and you might get frustrated along the way. Or you could use a lawn mower to help you achieve your goal more effectively.

One such instrument for reaching a meditative state is sound healing. Sound healing uses melody, harmony, and/or rhythm to help relax the mind enough to soak in the peace that is meditation. Our every day, externally focused consciousness operates at a rapid pace, emitting Beta brainwaves. When the brain slows down, similar to the experience of falling asleep or even simply being very relaxed, the brain enters alpha and then theta states. Some important things happen here, including, access to mental resourcefulness, an improved ability to mentally coordinate, and an overall sense of relaxation. It's a fascinating subject - you can read more about it here.

So, do you need sound to meditate? No. But sound healing practices can certainly make entering the slower brain wave states of Alpha and Theta more attainable.

If this resonates with you, consider the following:

• Attend a sound bath - An experience designed for this sole purpose. If you're in the East Tennessee area, join me for one or all in the upcoming months… more on that soon!

• Spend time in nature - Research indicates that humans respond favorably to the sounds of nature and that places like national parks provide "restorative acoustic environments"- read more about it here.

• Listen to a relaxing recording - when the first two options aren't available, give this a try. Maybe even for just a few minutes.

Go ahead. Your internal guidance system is waiting.

Cultivating Openness in Greece

I first conceptualized my summer in Greece as a happy accident. I had rejected the idea that graduate students "get to study abroad” but, was thankfully proved wrong. A poet I admire, David Whyte, who served as my constant companion through his writings on many a Cycladic beach, drew me to a more concise realization. This adventure was an invitation. A hand had been extended to me and my task was to clasp it in my own or perhaps slap it away. The portal of opportunity could have as easily shut without my accepting the call. Every invitation we encounter is designed as such, whether or not we actively think of it that way.

I moved through Greece in a group, as a pair, and then solo. I was never more aware of the invitation than when I was completely alone. The quiet internal voice that is regularly snuffed out by external stimuli suddenly was center stage and making inquiries:

Why had I decided to stay here alone? How long would I be here? Would I know when it was time to go? What if I never wanted to leave? 

I was tapping into a freedom I wasn’t sure I had ever encountered before. While I had to work within some real world constraints like finances and visa time limits, I was at liberty to define this chapter, its length and, its details. 

I soon realized I treasured the simplest moments most. Sitting on a towel with David Whyte’s poetry in hand as the waves lapped at my toes. Driving an ATV triumphantly from one side of an island to another, mostly grateful to have arrived safely in one piece. Poised on the back of a motorbike with the blast of the engine in my ears, wind gusting through my hair, eyes watering, taking in the grassy hills, white windmills, and a sapphire sea. Soaking up sunsets that engulfed the sky in peach, cranberry, and lavender. Admiring nude babies who frolicked on the beach, unconcerned by their naked form and wholly devoted to living their innocence. Encountering so many incredible people who taught me about their homes, culture, and worldviews and thus challenged my established ways of thinking. My entire body clinched more than once as I hoped to memorize the moment, recognizing its brevity, and thinking, “this will disappear if I blink."

Your reluctance to hear the call is as much an invitation as if the door had opened in the broad heavens and called you through. -David Whyte

“How could I ever leave this?” I thought at first. But somehow, I knew when it was time. 

Returning home was another invitation. I prize my home and my path as much as I prize the freedom to have immersed into an entirely unknown yet welcoming place. And I often think of Irvin Yalom’s somewhat curtly phrased dictum, “for every yes there must be a no”. This is the choice in invitation. I cheerfully and even longingly take every lesson of this adventure with me into the next adventure.  Accepting the summons invariably means rejecting so many others. But, in my mind, it's gift to be able to do both.

Stillness: the Fertile soil of Incubation

Now - a time for stillness. Even when I am not actively creating, what's happening beneath in the darks depths is far more important but, perhaps less glamorous. Incubation is occurring below the skin and away from the light of day. A delicious and mysterious alchemy of ideas are brewing in the unconscious, and with any luck, bubbling to the surface thanks to the opening that is stillness.

Stillness is less of a place or time than a state of being. Our life embodies a series of cycles, namely and often metaphorically, births, deaths and rebirths. The births and rebirths have long been thought of as the fun parts. Deaths, endings, conclusions, terminations are decidedly less sexy. Often, they hurt. They serve an important purpose, though. Just as we intake breath, we must eventually release it again as an exhale. Summer eventually yields to fall then winter. Each of us will soon enough be called to face the Great Void in the journey of death. We cannot control these phenomena any more than we can control nature. But, we can honor them and the meaning they bring to our lives. 

One might feel pressure to constantly produce. I know I do. "Who am I if I'm not DOing?" I've often wondered. There is a real social expectation to remain in a constant state of movement and productivity. Our world prizes results. Or worse, assumes endless productivity is a necessity. 

There will always be a dynamic balance tethering us to both the impulse to create and the rejuvenation of stillness. At once, we are bound up in a need to explore and grow while also beholden to an equal and opposite force: a need to yield and time to compose the rumblings of the heart. Inevitably, a singular devotion towards one opposed the other spells imbalance. We intuitively know when we are either overworked or underutilized. 

As I begin my next semester of graduate school, I feel a quiet voice remind me to savor my last few moments of stillness (for now). Snow is cloaked across the lawn and foliage, brightening the appearance of all it touches. I admire the snow's beauty and novelty and know that it will eventually take new form as water, another reminder of constant change. In this space of stillness, I realize how much there is to be gained and relished by simply "being". To ponder and to dream; to let the imagination take root and grow something magical and yet unknown. So much is happening in the rich dark soil of the earth before sprouts emerge. Insight can strike at any moment, but for me, it seems to be particularly fond of flashing through the stillness. The sacred speaks when it is nurtured. 

Personal Sovereignty

The older I get, the more important personal sovereignty becomes.

Aren’t most lives constructed in the image of our caretakers, our society, our zeitgeist? Are we not meant to be good little girls and little boys— obedient? And to stick with the program? Personal sovereignty is discerning where your conscious values and agendas start and all other influences end. 

It’s tempting, SO tempting— to believe that the world is what holds us back. That’s not to say the pressures aren’t real, the criticism isn’t real, because they are. For centuries, maybe millennia many have abandoned the Self in the name of external authorities. That’s part of the work embedded in ancestral healing. 

But how much power does external authority really have over us? Can we unshackle ourselves from their impositions and expectations? Or, more accurately, our perception of their expectations? This is a lesson in shadow work, something I intend to explore more deeply in future essays. We are generally unconscious of our shadow aspects, thus we project these qualities onto others or repress and act them out in ways we don’t realize. That’s the tricky thing about the unconscious - we inherently cannot be aware of it (without effort). Jung said of individuals working to integrate their shadow, “[One] knows that whatever is wrong in the world is in himself, and if he only learns to deal with his own shadow he has done something real for the world. He has succeeded in shouldering at least an infinitesimal part of the gigantic, unsolved social problems of our day.”

The road to personal sovereignty is not one of perfection - it’s one of wholeness. The journey is messy, disquieting and subject to ridicule. But it’s infinitely interesting. Personal sovereignty is a serpentine path that honors the dignity of the soul and the uniqueness of that journey. It builds resilience that was yet undiscovered by the individual. “Am I capable of doing THAT [insert radical thing here]?” ... Evidently you are. 

If we are pathologically beholden to forces outside of ourselves, the Self cannot bloom. Trust the quiet voice within that knows. 

What does personal sovereignty look like to you? 👑

It's probably not about you.

It’s probably not about you.

We’ve all had this moment: we are let down by someone we love, misunderstood by a new acquaintance, disappointed by a critical comment said to us at work. Betrayal. Belittling. The list goes on and on. The ego is kicked off its throne of self-assurance into a puddle of doubt and insecurity. 

When someone makes you feel inadequate, remember this: it’s mostly not about you. It doesn’t mean we don’t take responsibility if we fell through on our side of things. But, the reality is, people are generally so driven by their own wants, needs, agendas, unexamined beliefs, etc. that the times where they are most critical and unloving is most certainly a reflection of their own fears, past hurts and conditioning. People project. We all do. Which leads me to my next point...

The real kicker here is the correlated reality: your own response may not be completely about them. It may be rooted in past trauma, past rejection, past wounds that are amplified in this moment of vulnerability. The old recording of “I knew this would happen, this always happens…” might kick on. This is one of the ways in which we “story our world”- to borrow an idea from James Hollis. Your inner child may be activated and ready to throw a tantrum. These are the moments that take so much work to objectively observe. It helps to have a trusted loved one to talk through the big feelings in these moments. Or a journal to unload your feelings and parse through them later. Or even going back to self-care habits that can help you return to a place of regulated emotions and thinking. And let’s not forget: nothing can replace the valuable insight of a therapist. My message here is one of tenderness- find a way to return to it, remember how worthy you are of it. Tend to the heart and ask yourself the honest questions.

Trolls of anxiety

When I first started meditating, I regularly encountered disturbing images. I’d come upon a sinister character or imagine something bad was about to happen. I was puzzled, if not disturbed, by these thoughts. Wasn’t meditation supposed to be relaxing?

I now think of these images as the “trolls of anxiety”. I was scared of my inner depths because... What would I find there? My vast inner-scape was a secret place I had avoided for so long. I had replaced any need or curiosity to venture there with action, action, action. To take an honest look at the great inner abyss was threatening to say the least.

At some point, while in a meditative state, I engaged with these imaginal characters directly. When I realized that these were shadow aspects of my own personality- often the foot soldiers of anxiety, anger/rage and resentment- I found that giving them attention was more productive than continuing to ignore them. Relating to my inner images became a natural part of my life’s sustenance as my ego learned to take direction from the inside.

Meditation isn’t simply about relaxing or escaping the day. Often it demands that you face the inevitable quandaries of the life. For me, this realization was frightening but then— freeing.

Have you struggled to drop into a meditative state? How did you overcome the challenge?