f*ck "stuck"

It wasn't long ago that I found myself stuck.

Physically, stuck. In my car. On a snowy, slippery path declining straight into a river. Couldn't reverse out of it, couldn't move any farther forward. My palms were sweating, my heart was racing, and my lunch hour was quickly running out. Soon I'd be late getting back to work. And here I was -- stuck.

I tried rocking back and forth, going from "drive" to "reverse" as swiftly as I could. I'd back up a few inches and think I was saved, only to have my tires start spinning again and slide back down the hill, even closer to the river. Being in a state forest in the middle of the day on a Tuesday, there wasn't anyone around to beg for help. I felt doomed.

After a long while, I realized I could pull forward and off the path to the right, risking gunning the engine and avoiding trees and picnic tables and any unseen rocks far enough to swing back around and meet up with the main road farther down. In a moment of bravery, I did just that. I managed to steer clear of any stumps and ended up getting one wheel up onto the main road before I was stuck even harder than before -- now looking like a fool, having driven my car through the woods from the direction of the river. Holding back tears, I saw a man and his dog pull up just then and asked him to help push me out. Within just seconds, I put the car in neutral, steered straight ahead, and this earth angel pushed me to safety. Adrenaline rushed and I was freed, only a few minutes behind schedule. I thanked him profusely and sped back to work, shoes soaked and pants muddy.

The thing is.....in that moment of sweaty-palms, racing-heart, and teary-eyes, I was so totally sure I was stuck. I was stuck. My car wasn't moving. The snow was against me. I'd be there forever, or until a tow truck came. There was no getting around it. Stuck, stuck, stuck.

Once I was able to gain some perspective on the situation, I realized how familiar that place is: going into survival mode, dropping down into a pit of despair, throwing up hands and throwing in the towel. It's so easy. And it's a pretty common place -- you've said yes to plans you wished you'd said no to, you're in a job you hate and there's no other options, you declare yourself depressed and there's no way out anytime soon, you don't know what to do in that tricky situation. For the past month I've known that place intimately. Shutting out light and declaring myself "stuck." Waiting for the upswing, as if it's some great outside force that's going to come sweep you off your feet and drop you back into the real world. Deciding it must be a reaction to a food or a general dissatisfaction for current circumstances. The label of "stuck." Anything to keep the responsibility away.

Yes, I know that place, well.



To which I now say, fuck "stuck."

(I say this in the gentlest of ways, like an urgent encouragement of the word "stuck" to dislodge itself from your mind.)

"Stuck" is just a mindset. It's not real. It does not define you. Contrary to what your mind is trying to tell you, it isn't a place you're in.

It's a state of being, in your head. Which is good news, because we can change those much easier than we can a two-ton vehicle sliding through the snow on a hill.

Flip the switch. Feel into what you need and make any tiny little adjustment that needs making. Open the heart chakra. Make a decision, in that instant, to let love in. Smile, breathe, trust. You are not stuck. Fuck stuck. You are never stuck.

Just open. Open yourself up a tiny little bit, invite in a gentle softening.

Suddenly a crack of light will make its way into your field of vision. You can step forward and open the door, and that crack will become wider, bigger, brighter, until the whole room of your heart is lit up. And you can hold onto that doorknob anxiously, just waiting for the next opportunity to ease it shut again, or you can

let it go. And exhale and smile and let it all pass through you, aware and trusting.

And throw your arms up and stand in your light, bravely.

Because you are never stuck.

haven.

I'd like to see the South of France.

And Asheville.

And Sedona.

And Reykjavic.

And Tuscany.

And South Africa again, too.


What is the proper method for going about life when a severe case of wanderlust sinks in? The method doesn't even have to be proper. It just has to be.....a method. A coping mechanism. A bandaid for the time being, until the world travel can really happen.

Perhaps there needs to be the expansion, first. The watching of movies and the reading of National Geographics and the stumbling upon of photos that take your breath away and spark a sincere desire for more. For possibility, for excitement, for culture. One minute you're putting in Under The Tuscan Sun for a cheap weekend chick flick and the next minute you're pressing pause abruptly, looking up sharply, and speaking aloud to no one in particular: "I must go to Tuscany." (This has happened to me once before -- I was drifting off to sleep when I sat bolt upright and declared I must go to some such place. And I did, four weeks later -- although that was just to NYC, not across oceans.) The presence of possibility must be there first.

And then there's this idea of home, that home is found within you, deep in the recesses of your heart. And that home doesn't depend on where one is physically in the world.

I've always struggled with that one.

It can be especially difficult, when you're trying to navigate the deep recesses of your heart and your outer surroundings are so decidedly not home. At least, not in that moment. Unpacking your belongings and setting up shop within your own body can seem like the farthest thing from truth.

 

And then there are moments when you're cleaning the bathroom, immersing yourself in the most mundane of tasks simply because a series of repetitive actions without much thinking sounds good to you, and you're suddenly caught by the Saturday morning sunlight catching the water droplets in your just-scrubbed sink and you think to yourself: "That has got to be the most beautiful thing in the world." And so getting out the camera and taking pictures of the bathroom sink becomes perfectly natural, in that moment. It is the closest thing to truth, safety, resonance, and warmth that you've felt in awhile.

The mundane suddenly becomes the magical. The act of making the bed, refilling your water glass, hanging up your coat, setting the alarm, pushing in your chair.....punctuated by the most astounding moments of clarity and contentment. One day after another, in and out, mundane and magic.

And then -- you've created a haven. The word "haven" has been following me lately, tugging at my heels wanting to be heard. It feels nurturing and expansive and personal. It feels like an enormous blank wall, all your own. Settling down into this haven, unpacking the items marked "fragile" and spreading the softest comforter over the bed -- this is where the room for possibility is created. The room for moments of sharp wanderlust that hit you gently in your gut and make you think, "Oh yeah. I'll go there some day, for sure." The room for hyper-awareness of the clarity and contentment that will undoubtedly rush in.


Someday I'll see the South of France. And Asheville, and Sedona, and Reykjavic, and Tuscany, and I'll go back to South Africa, too.

But for now, I'm setting up a haven. Deeply and soulfully. And stopping to take pictures, yes.

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.