The Transition.

After the labor, and before the pushing, there is the transition.

The hardest part of the birth of the thing.

The part where the thing is lodged in such a way that it cannot go back the way it came, and it cannot yet move forward.

Lodged. Shifting. Dilating. Preparing for entry. Waiting on the precipice between born and unborn. Getting set to move head first down the canal.

The laboring feels long gone. The laboring that lasted hours, days, weeks, months, years is done. Completed. The heart has moved on. If there are any nostalgic whisperings, it is too late.

There suddenly seems to be no space for recovery, no moments for integration and processing and accommodation. There is burning. There is hurting like hell. There is feeling like movement is nonexistent, and there is also the feeling of the most powerful movement that could ever be experienced. Lodged, yet expanding. Rapidly.

It cannot be sucked back up, and it cannot be forced out, either. It is exactly where it is meant to be.

The body knows what to do. It is not time to push, in transition. There is nothing to do but keep breathing, holding out hope, grasping onto the faith that it will soon be transformed. For transition is often when the faith is lost, when throwing up the arms in exasperation occurs, when plans are angrily thrown out and medication is requested, stat.

The forest of transition is thick. And dark. And seems like the only thing ever known.

It is the hardest part of the birth. And it is also the shortest.



Yet on the other side of this transition-state is life. That thing that is being birthed. That thing that is being born into this world.

It is your life, your creation.

It is you.

And after long last, it is positioned for entry. It is time. It is pushed out easily, sliding freely into existence.

The pushing isn't much of pushing at all. The pushing is the easy part.

The world erupts, love radiates, stars explode, rainbows burst forth, and all becomes sunny and free. 

Through the thick forest of labor and depletion and exhaustion, this seemed impossible at times. You only had an inkling of an idea  

that life of this caliber was possible, that love of this magnitude existed, that joy of this kind was an option.


Transition is the hardest part of the birth. And it is also the shortest.

Have faith. For when transition sets in, it becomes clear:

Hold on a little longer. Breathe. Keep the faith. Recommit to feeling good, to that great expanse lying before you.

For birth is imminent.

a note to you, to me.

To feel good is to feel alive.

And to feel alive, you must follow your aliveness.

Even if this means saying no to an invitation from your best friend, an extra shift, more money, that job offer, your dearest family member. A no to what doesn’t feel good will be a yes to yourself.

Follow your aliveness.

When your body feels at peace, that is aliveness.

You must say yes. You must pick up each breadcrumb of truth as it comes and sit with it, however small it may be, and say thank you.

And then wait for the next one.

You may wait for a long time. You may want to stray off to the right or the left and forget about the breadcrumb because in that moment it will feel easier to find something else than wait for more aliveness. It will feel easier to give in to the negativity and drama and just let yourself sink into it, simply for a place to sink into.

But it will not be easier. It will not feel good.

And to feel good is to feel alive.

So you must be devoted to feeling alive. You must tell yourself over and over again countless times a day, “I am committed to feeling good. I am committing to what I know because it feels better.” You must remind yourself of this often, as many times as it takes. 

It may take a shitload of times. It probably will. And that’s okay. 

Eventually it will start to feel more normal. And more easy. 

Eventually you’ll be so far across the tightrope that to go back the way you came will feel just as intimidating as moving forward.

And so you will move forward, following your aliveness, picking up the next breadcrumb, making your way to the other end of the rope.

You will discover what feeds your soul, and what does not. You will begin to recognize the breadcrumbs and find them more easily.

You will begin to know more clearly what you want to feel, and how you want to feel. You will paste those words and images up on the walls around you as your soul soaks up the feelings, and your actions towards aliveness will become guided by these intended feelings, without you even realizing it.

You will become so in tune with your body that simply thinking of the word LOVE in your mind will be enough to quell your hunger, at least in that moment.

You will become so in tune with your body that it will whisper into your soul things that you cannot even comprehend or understand. And despite the lack of comprehension and understanding you will listen for the sake of that commitment to aliveness. 

You will not know why closing out that browser window at that exact moment feels so good, but you’ll be happy you did once it is closed.

(And to feel good is to feel alive.)

The aliveness will show up. It will never fail you. There will be no logical need for worrying, since the aliveness will always come. You make take a strange path as you follow the breadcrumbs, but that’s okay. The breadcrumbs will always come, and you will need to have taken that path to see them. Do you see? There is no logical need for worrying.

Eventually, living in the flow will feel so good and so damn easy that you’ll wonder why you never did this sooner. Suddenly decisions as simple as what to eat for dinner and as complex as where to live in this world will feel like the most natural thing ever, and you’ll go with that flow of aliveness simply because it feels good, letting go of the worry. And it won’t be until after you eat the dinner or after you sign the lease that you’ll realize it – how much that decision resonated, how proud of yourself you are, how simple life can be. And you’ll wonder if everyone else knows this and if it came sooner or easier to them but,

you’ll be really grateful you discovered such a beautiful secret. 

You’ll find other souls along your path who are also picking up breadcrumbs and you’ll glance sidelong at each other and smile quietly knowing you know the same beautiful secret. 

And you’ll want to keep going, keep taking the next breath, keep looking out for that next breadcrumb. Because it will feel good.

And so you’ll keep going. And the good feelings will come.

because i always seem to forget how good it feels to pick up the camera.

in case you ever questioned the efficacy of acupuncture.

First, she needles my back. Face down, table warmer on, my face cradled in the head rest, neck releasing and relaxing. Despite the occasional noises and voices from the hallway, I'm able to focus on my breath and the soft Native American flute music and close my eyes as my body drifts off into the most delicious 20-minute nap I can ever remember. I sleep lightly and wake every now and then, wondering how it hasn't been 20 minutes yet -- it's as if time has stopped for me. For a delicious 2pm nap.

Flip over, sheets rearranged, she needles my front. Feet, legs, abdomen, hands, ear, forehead. Another 20-minute nap. Only this time, I've just had my delicious power nap and I'm wide awake. I decide to focus on my breath and the most amazing thing happens -- I go so far into my body, so deep into the nuanced sensations that come with each passing thought that I seem to leave the table, the room, the building. I'm suddenly deep within my body, feeling how one word creates a particular sensation and another creates something entirely different. I'm acutely aware of my balanced state -- the feeling of a calm, serene body of water at my heart space, evenly and peacefully lapping at the shores of my limbs and lips. I breathe into this, feeling and noticing, feeling and noticing. One stray thought pops into my head -- a tiny, nagging thought that would typically spiral me into a thought avalanche and bring about deep worry -- and I'm magically able to say hello to it, to feel the separateness of me and it, to breathe again until I can stand tall in my peaceful heart space waters. And just like that, as I loosen my grip and remember my breath and feel the worry float away, I'm able to control my mood, my present. I feel powerful. I want to laugh. Take that, anxiety. Take that, panic. For this is the exact way to counteract it, this is my method of rising above it, of knowing I am not it, it is not me. Imagine.

Within a few seconds another unsavory thought wades over, and I'm amazed at my ability to instantly notice my body's reaction, to feel my energy slide south into my gut, knotting and twisting ever so slightly. I remind my cells of that feeling of the peaceful, still waters and after a few seconds of breathing, all is well again up in my heart space. Had I not been lying on a warm table in a dark quiet room, I'd probably not notice any of this. In fact, up until recently, I'd never notice, ever.

This feels monumental to me.

And so I continue, breathing and feeling and noticing, over and over again, wide awake, until the 20 minutes are up and my deep body meditation is over. The needles come out and I'm reminded to take my time getting up, and my groggy, messy-haired, makeup-smudged reflection in the mirror smiles back, reveling in the small miracle that's just occurred in this tiny little acupuncture room in the back of a gynecologist's office building.

Me and these needles, man. We've got something good.

just so you know, universe.

 

Someday, there will be a space in the world, carved out and taking up air, allocated solely for me. For me and all my precious -- though few -- belongings.

Someday, I’ll be able to waltz into the bathroom whenever I please, leave the door open if I please, sing aloud if I please, walk about in a towel for as long as I please. There will be nothing in the tub besides my shower things and I will breathe into all the free space with me in my shower.

Someday, I’ll have an entire refrigerator just for my use. Shelves upon shelves and drawers upon drawers, gloriously empty, waiting to be filled with my lemons and eggs and almond milk and bunches of kale. I’ll leave it open for as long or as short as I like and arrange its contents to please me.

Someday, I’ll have a bedroom with enough space for a real bed in it. For a desk and a chair that can be pulled out fully and a comfy chair too, for dreaming and writing. For a floor space large enough to unfurl a yoga mat and accommodate warrior three pose, easily.

Someday, I’ll get to decide
how often or how rarely the hand towels be washed,
at what point in the evening the television be turned on, if at all,
at what time of day the shades be lifted and closed,
what hangs on the walls and what doesn’t,
how often and in what manner the furniture gets moved around,
whether or not incense be burned,
when to throw away the leftovers,
which political signs be advertised
(there won’t be any).

Someday, I’ll get to come home and flop down onto the couch without a worry of who may be coming or going, of what next catastrophe may occur (whether it's made up in the mind or not), of whether the dog has been fed yet, of the home phone ringing with an unsavory caller on the other end. I will flop down on that couch and the only chatter going on will be my own.

Someday.
Someday soon.

I'm grateful in advance, Universe.

felicitous findings.....in gratitude.

Once upon a time I had a blog series here in this space that I somewhat-regularly updated. I called it Felicitous Findings -- mini-posts of five things that made me happy. Gratitudes, if you will. Tiny little things that brought a little light into my life, into this space.

My last post was in February of 2011. Heh.


And yet, gratitude has been on my mind lately. It keeps popping up into random moments of my life, peeking its head around the corner and seeing if I'm paying attention. A couple of days ago I was having a rather low, anxiety-filled day, the rain and gray and gloominess finally catching up with me after an endless week of bad weather. And just when I decided to acknowledge it and let myself feel like shit, a little pocket of space was created, just big enough for gratitude to peep back in again.

And I saw this episode of Your Great Life TV.

And I got three letters in the mail from joy sisters.

 And I emailed a dear friend.

And I remembered other souls are remembering gratitude, too.

And I remembered these Felicitous Findings posts.


And so I will continue them, now. I want to focus on the tiny things I am grateful for at the ends of my days, as I fall to sleep, and copy them here to share. In gratitude. In love.

Tiny shifts. Slowly.

"It starts with our bodies. It starts with taking care of your body. When you take care of your body, you feel good. When you feel good, you think different thoughts. When you think different thoughts, you make different decisions, you take different actions. When you take different actions, your day turns out different. And then you stack a day on top of a day on top of a day.....I mean, that’s your life."

Sylvia Ferrero

 

dancing around in the gray area.

 

I want to share here so badly. I have that itch for writing, the kind of writing you do in a quiet cafe on a gray afternoon with soft jazz playing while rain pours outside the window. The kind of writing that gathers you inward, wrapping you in a warm embrace and catching all your jumbled, rambly, unsure words.

Yet the words feel so jumbled and rambly and unsure that it's hard to get them out. Despite the itch.


And so I live in my gray area for a bit longer. I hold onto the jumbled words as my own, shared only to the closest of souls and the pages of my journal. I let the pieces fall around me, trusting them to be caught and held. I let it all go.

It's rather like living in limbo-land. Going about my days without a shred of an idea of how they'll end up, of where I'll be next month, of where my next thought will take me. (They're prone to running wild before I can reign them in.) And yet, despite the limbo, there's a decisiveness about the state. A conscious decision that with each step, though you're positive you're in limbo-land, you'll continue taking those steps.

And so really, it's all about trust.

Trust that this limbo isn't forever. Trust that all I must do is breathe and feel, and breathe and feel again. Trust that letting go of attachment to all these crazy expectations is totally, absolutely necessary and possible. Trust that following my intuition and listening to my body is how I'll know where the next step is. Trust that I'll take that step once it presents itself. Trust that all is unfolding.

It's a lot of trust, this limbo land. An inordinate amount of trust. Sometimes a ridiculously scary amount of trust (okay, all the time).

But choosing to be here, while visualizing being there......it's kind of a magical place.



"Wizards assume success. Master manifesters don't 'wish' or 'hope' that their magic is going to be effective. They know it will be. They rely on the science of it. They believe that on some dimension, another reality already exists and all they need to do is bring that manifestation down to Earth. Pluck."

Danielle LaPorte

being present to change.

 

I once told a very wise woman about my plans to move to Providence this fall over gluten free chocolate cookies and strawberries.

"Fall is a great time for change," she smiled.

I took a deep breath of knowing in that moment. Yes, fall. Change. Rebirth. Of course. Of course it is, the perfect time.

And so I've been readying myself. Keeping up this inner work I've been assigned. Noticing and feeling the sensations in my body with each decision, no matter how small. Continuing to journal like mad, pouring my words onto paper with heartfelt emotion. Taking it slow, adjusting and re-adjusting and re-adjusting again. Knowing that there is not One Great Step, but a series of miniscule shifts that create life-change.


The thing is, to create life-change, you have to be present to it.

Last weekend I took a trip to Squam in New Hampshire, along with Hannah and Stephanie, my online and quickly-becoming-real-life friends. I traveled first to Hannah's in Providence, then on to Steph's in Massachusetts, and then we all made the trip north for the weekend's art fair.

It was a glorious event, buzzing with so much talent and creativity and love and mesmerizing bloggers/artists that I think I was a little paralyzed. We visited all the stands, made careful purchases, declined the free beer (we're a gluten free bunch for sure), took a lot of pictures together. We left on the early side, making it back to Massachusetts by 1am, Rhode Island by 2, and I decided to stick it out and drive home, finishing the last leg by 3:30.

For a highly sensitive girl, it was a long day. And night. And even though I loved it, it took a lot out of me.

I slept late the next day and felt terrible. But it wasn't just the lack of sleep. It was the coming down from the high. The waking up in the same bed that I'm wishing so badly to get out of. The same house. The same town. Knowing I'd be going to the same job in the morning. Going from the high of Squam with these beautiful women I admire so deeply, to back "home" to my teeny space, seemingly alone. It felt final and devastating and murky and ripe with anger.

And here's the thing: I could make a choice about how to move through those low moments. Two very different choices.

I could fall into it. Get lost in it. Tumble all the way down to the depths of despair and turn back to familiar places of feeling stuck and never getting anywhere. Turn away from any progress I've made and instead grasp tightly to the old, the physical reality that so poorly demonstrates how much I've changed.

Or I could simply feel it. Acknowledge the hurt, the sadness, the pain. Honor it. Nod my head and tell it yes, yes, I know. Share it. Talk about it. And then realize, Yes. This is where the growth happens, the change. This is how movement is created, progress is made. I need to be present, right here. Still feel what comes up, but with more space. More possibility.

Being present to change. That's it. To be open, to be ready.....you must be here. You must be present. This takes an incredible amount of strength. And it is so, so difficult. But that showing up.....sometimes that's all it takes.


A few nights ago as I was falling asleep, in that in-between consciousnesses state of rest when dreams begin to form, I had a strange dream, almost more of a vision. A figure was suddenly before me, a face seemingly out of nowhere, with big eyes and a sticking-out nose and it came right up into my face and said, "Are you ready?" It caught me by surprise and I realized then that I was still awake, that this wasn't quite a dream. It was a little unnerving. But then I heard it again, "Are you ready? Ready? Ready? Ready?" Somehow, I got past the strangeness of it all and smiled. Of course. I must be ready. I must be ready to embrace the change, to make space for it, to welcome it, to open up to it, to hug it. I'm ready, I said. I'm ready.

I'm ready.

on letting go and releasing.that.tight.grip.

I tend to see things in black and white.

I can't afford it.
It's not going to happen.
I need to have this job.
I must be "me" at all times.
I need to move by this date.
I don't know what to do.

No breathing room. No space. No movement.

Just some really, really fucking tight grips.

I didn't see it for awhile. I felt like I was just being realistic -- setting goals and boundaries for myself. Only, I wasn't.

I was choking the life out of these things.

I had such a damn hard grip on the job I applied for and was excited about that suddenly, nothing else mattered. It was this, or nothing. I went from holding so tightly to the belief that I need to find a job, I need to find a job, I need to find a job to I need to get this job, I need to get this job, I need to get this job. Nothing had actually changed.

I wasn't making it very easy for these jobs to find me. I wasn't attracting them to me, I was creating the least amount of space possible for them. If I were a job, I don't think I'd want to find me either.

And that's where the tiny little shifts come in that seem so subtle, but totally change the playing field. I suddenly realized I could live in the gray area. Things wouldn't fall to shit around me, the world would continue turning. Only now, it'd be a whole lot easier to breathe. It'd feel more uncertain, yes -- but it'd be easier to exist. 

I've been practicing these small shifts and together, they're changing my reality.

From "I can't afford it" to "I really love that and know that it's worth the expense but I'm going to hold an intention to have it someday, all in good time."

From "It's not going to happen" to "Maybe now's not the right time and I just need to have a little trust that the right thing will come along when it's meant to."

From "I need to have this job" to "It'd be really nice to get this job but I'm just going to focus on how I want to feel in it and let the rest go."

From "I must be 'me' at all times" to "I love this lifelong practice of learning to come more fully into myself."

From "I need to move by this date" to "Everything is unfolding just as it should and I know that when I've done the inner work and am ready to move, I will."

From "I don't know what to do" to "I feel unsure and could really use some support around this."



Changing our inner voice -- this is where the magic happens. Knowing that you can practice unclenching your jaw over and over again every five minutes and that you can rearrange your desk just for a change of scenery even if that means it's sticking out awkwardly and all the cords are visible and you move it back after an hour. The point is that we get to write this story, basing decisions on if they feel good or not, hanging out in the gray area simply because it feels better.

Expanding horizons. Creating new space. Writing our stories.

This is where I am.

on going through, tapping into joy, and writing my own story.

 

These Joy Ups.....they're magical things. I'm not sure how they work, or what Hannah does, or how we all end up feeling so ridiculously loved and incredibly supported by the end, but.....I love them. I love them so much. They've become such an integral part of my process. It's a support that I've purchased, put in place, and done the "work" for. And I know that it will help me.

Here is the joy and support my life was missing all these years.

These past two years have been hard and trying and painful and long, but they have been the tumultuous entry to the rest of my life. To a life of beauty and love.

Like a shuttle coming back down to earth through the turbulent atmosphere, so am I going through this personal growth time of my life, expanding and reaching and feeling all the growing pains. Going through and being in the feelings instead of pushing them away and swallowing them and trying to forget them. I've been in the moment, trusting the hard ones will end and I'll come out the other side.

That's where I've been. Sitting with the thought that "wherever you go, there you are." I am what I have. I have my breath. I have my body. I have my heart. I've been in these moments so deeply, noticing tiny nuances of sensation and thought that I've never gone deep enough to notice before.....my chest, my throat, my head.....almost pulling my car over one afternoon, so overcome with simply being in my body, deep.

That is knowing. That is trust. That is be-ing. That is the very essence of what we're all doing here. For if we can rely on our bodies and breath and heart, we're never really alone.

For now, I'm just breathing through it, reminding myself that I am not missing out on anything or wasting time, because this is my life. Wherever you go, there you are. This is it. This is the work I have to do, want to do, need to do. To turn back through that tumultuous atmosphere, knowing how hard it was and how long it took.....that would be harder. My time right now is steeped so strongly in wisdom and medicine, I know I just need to be open to it. I need to be here now. I need to be open, to the joy and beauty and ease that's just beyond that cup of coffee or heart-shaped leaf or beaded bracelet.

I need to move through, slowly and joyously and with trust.



And so I am writing my own story. I'm not just reading some story someone handed to me anymore -- oh no, I am choosing what type of book I'd like to write in and what pen feels good to me and where I'd like to be sitting and how I'd like my penmanship to be.

I am choosing. I am re-creating. It is time. Gently, ease-ily, soulfully.

As my Joy sister Christina said, "I rebuilt my life the way I want it to be, for no other reason than it feels good."

Yes. Yes. A million times yes.