Instead of adding insult to injury, I’ve been learning to subtract. Three weeks ago I broke my collarbone in the middle of the night on Day 2 of a long-anticipated tropical vacation with my husband. I slid on some slippery Mexican tile and catapulted down three steps to land on my collar bone. At three a.m. on a Sunday morning. The story of How I Spent My Vacation starts with that event, with riding a ferry from the island to a hospital and harnessing myself into a splint for the next two weeks.

And it goes on from there. So much for the plan to kayak. Bike. Hike. All gone.

Much of the trip I experienced a low level of pain. My patient husband had signed up to assist me in the night as I tried to find comfort. I was pretty convinced that this injury was a big problem. On many levels this was true. In its disappointment, my mind rehearsed all the reasons this was true.

Again and again.

But what I noticed was this: every time I argued with the reality of the broken bone, I experienced the Injury PLUS the Insult.

“I was clumsy.”

“I wrecked the vacation.”

“My body is a wreck.”

“I never get a break.” (Seriously. No pun intended. That was one of my theme songs.)

At some point I got so tired of this recurring belief that I started laughing (without jolting the upper body).

I was getting a break.

All around me was sun, ocean, warm weather, a wealth of ancient history. There were chairs to sit on that allowed me to recline.

Beds and pillows where I needed to be prone.

Nothing to do but heal. Take a break. Relax.

Without the insults, I could handle the injury. In fact, there were some advantages. When I let myself off the hook.

Jan. 5th (or 6th) is my favorite holiday. For years I thought I had it all to myself. Having already failed at whatever New Year’s Resolutions I had thrown at the dartboard, I would try again to envision my next year after the decorations were put away and the rich holiday foods were consumed or thrown away.

When I was raising a family, this would hit after the kids were back in school and we were once again held by familiar routines. I discovered that arranging some time for myself and myself alone on this day was the last and best day of the holiday. It was like my own personal clean-up, my revisioning time.

Later I was giddy to learn that there was a date on the liturgical calendar called “Epiphany,” and that it coincided with my private holiday.

Epiphany is also known as Three Kings Day throughout Latin America, and it’s a family day, a day that gifts are given to children, honoring the gifts the Wise Men brought to the manger. It’s also traditionally considered the last day of Christmas.

An Epiphany is also, of course, an “aha” moment. Like the one I was having when I discovered I was sharing my personal holiday with half the hemisphere.

For me, the image of wise people following a star to the birth of a baby, to the birth of hope and possibility, made my private holiday even better. And better yet that others were celebrating on this very day. As long as I didn’t have to cook, decorate, or make the party happen.

Hunkered down with tea and a journal, I could reflect on my past year. This was something I’d never had a chance to do during the New Year’s hubbub, no matter how much I intended to prepare for New Year’s resolutions. I took long walks in silence, if I could. I got a massage, if I could afford it. Did a yoga class. All of it in near silence.

What I discovered I’m sharing with you now: “Aha” moments can double or even triple when you celebrate Epiphany or dedicate some time to solitude. Even if you think you’ve missed the window for New Year’s Resolutions, if you’ve already broken every one you half-heartedly made. Take some time now… or soon… to clear your busy mind.

Give yourself a break. Breathe. Eat nourishing food. Lightly and slowly. If you feel like napping, do it. Take some time in nature, if possible.

What do you love to do? Let your hand write it down. Make room for one of these every day. See what Aha’s arise.

If you like lists, a list of what you “should” do this year. If it doesn’t ring your chimes, drop it. Or make it fun. Instead of “lose ten pounds,” make a list of high-nutrition whole foods (especially soups) you love and can prepare ahead of time. Put a little piece of scotch tape on your snack shelf to make you more mindful of your choice to eat. Call it good and move on.

Your own private Epiphany can happen any time by design. Free yourself to set up a personal getaway whenever you can. If you need to go away for a 24-hour reboot, do it. The secret sauce is some silence. Some solitude (even if you share it with a friend, listening and quiet time is essential

Listen for the Aha’s that arise.

It’s pretty darned hard to miss the flashing ads and headlines that remind me, and all of us, that this is the time for resolve, discipline, will power. My own natural desire  to get more in touch with my healthy body through diet and exercise at this time of year always finds plenty of support from the culture around me. I don’t mind riding that wave. But anybody at my gym will tell you that the new spurt of activity lasts about six weeks.

What makes it stick is when I dip deeply to discover what’s been in the way of change.  I’ve discovered for myself that  any resolutions for the new year just don’t take unless I spend some time thinking about where I’ve been, getting my bearings for what’s ahead.

Because the unquestioned past seems to have a way of becoming in the future. 

So I’m planning on spending a little time every day  to remember where I’ve been. Where did I “forget” my resolutions? What got in the way. When I’m on my game, I keep a food and exercise journal. When I’m not, I have amnesia. So looking over old journals provides a clue.

When I connect the dots to past sabotage, I seem to always discover  that I have made bigger breakthroughs when I’ve questioned the thoughts that have held me prisoner. This helps me to get my bearings for what’s ahead. I remember what I easily forget: that clarity comes when I listen within.

This interior process can continue  into the winter months and matches perfectly the weather reports urging me to “stay home.” The pay-off is often enormous connection with that source, the fuse that powers real change.

In about a month, I’ll be offering group classes in inquiry  from the virtual Oasis. We’ll be listening together for what replenishes and to question what gets in the way of living the life we’re called to live. I’m excited to share the process with others who want to explore together the deepening journey. I’m curious about what will show up as we gather up together to find our own kindest truths and live them in our lives.

Join us if you can, and if you can’t, I’ll share what we’re learning together here in the blog space.
For now, what are your ways of preparing for the new year? How do you call yourself home from the chaos of the holidays? What thoughts or beliefs would you like to explore in the coming months? I’m curious.

In this chilly and bustling time, where do you freeze yourself out of your own heart? Maybe you check the holiday list and check it twice, without even noticing that your name never happens to appear. Your Inner Santa doesn’t see you, even if you’ve been nice rather than naughty. And so you leap through the holidays and to  the end of the year without ever bringing yourself along.

Despite the exhilaration of the season, there’s often something inside that just longs to be heard, to be seen. It can be naughty by overeating or overdrinking to get your attention. Or it can have a meltdown or get sick. Then maybe you’ll stop and appreciate it. Instead, it usually waits quietly to get noticed.

This is a season where temptations to ignore our quieter self abound. We push ourselves through the shopping and preparation, listening to the desires of others and our own harsh, whip-packing inner critic extolling us to work harder to make the holiday sparkle.

This is a time where a little warmth can go a long way. The warmth of your kind self, turning to listen to you. Compassionately witnessing your own idiosyncracies, your own generosity. Take a few minutes to put your feet up this week with a cuppa something hot. Perhaps you can catch that every-busy self-critic at work and invite her to tea. Listen with warmth to the ways she tries to grab your attention and makes you a problem. Ask her why she pushes you, keeps you in the fast lane. Does she believe that all will be lost if you slow down, care for yourself? Really?

What if all isn’t lost? What if allowing yourself some warmth actually helps you find something…something quiet, something peaceful. Something patiently waiting to be found? Something like to real magic of the holiday.
NOW make a list. List all the ways you’ve shown kindness for others, all they places you’ve given of yourself to make the world brighter. Breathe that in. Give yourself credit. Now, add to the list. List three things you won’t do that will free your time or head space. After that, list things that you will give yourself just because it gives you a peaceful or warm feeling to care that much for you.

Seems like as good a way to prepare, this season. Treating yourself with kindness. Putting yourself on the list.

This poem has been on the marquee in my town for a long time. A wonderful mantra. I’m so glad it’s there. Because it’s so easy to forget. Remembering, that’s the trick. To notice, breathe, look up at this blue sky. What’s left is gratitude. Remembering. Grateful as I launch into the dazzle today, I am.

There’s a line in the recent Sherlock Holmes movie that grabbed my attention.

“Give me some evidence, Holmes. With a little mud I can build bricks and from there I can build a case.”

I’m struck by how often we use the evidence we have to wall us into  a world view that isn’t kind to us or the people around us. Someone cuts us off in traffic and we take it personally. Our kids are acting out. Proof we’re a bad parent. And so it can go, if we believe our case that we’re failing or not measuring up, somehow.

What I’ve been discovering as I work with my own mind and assist others in inquiry is that there’s another choice. When you learn to question your mind, you begin to see a whole new set of evidence. You notice the people who left space for you to merge into their lane, the sweet moments with your children, noticing their process of growing up for what it is. The more evidence you find, the more bricks you have to create a world worth inhabiting. A kinder world. The world of beauty just outside your wall of judgements.

Give it a try. Notice for a day the way how you collect bricks. Where doesn’t the world or other people measure up, in your opinion? What if it were just your opinion, nothing else? What else is possible? Begin to collect bricks of possibility. Notice the bricks in your life that create a sense of peace and gratefulness in your heart. Keep building from these bricks and see what happens. Just for a day. Write down what you notice or share it with a dear one.

Have you ever wished you’d come equipped with an Auto Refresh button? If I had one, I’d use it today. Where was I before the weekend? Oh, right. There. A place to start on Monday morning. A place to Begin Within. This is the time of year when Things come up. Things to prepare for. Things to complete. Friends and family, too. Their things. All of those things we call life with others, life of community.

I’m one of those people who needs to stop and listen to my own directions before I can go into the world and do my thing.

Simply dropping in to a deeper level of connection with my own needs, wants, and inner promptings can be….well, a little more difficult than hitting Reset. There are days I’d give anything for a little curvy upward arrow that I could click and magically reset my screen, putting me back in the loop of my own deeper thinking/knowing.

In the best of all worlds, I’d keep hitting the refresh button all day, checking in and checking back with that still small voice. When I’m in social or high-pressure situations I can easily forget. And I forget the keyboard shortcut, too.

Over time, I’ve come up with a few routines for re-connecting. What that meant when I worked full-time as a teacher, was a bedtime journal or early morning list of priorities. Mornings like this one, I write this on the top of a page of my journal: Now where WAS I?

For me, ten minutes of reflective writing works wonders.  A list of recent moments that sparkled. Looking out the window at the bird feeder. Petting my dog. Meditation. Yoga. As I write the list, it grows.

The amazing and wonderful thing is, once I remember, even a few minutes can bring me back to me. To a quiet inner world has been there all along waiting patiently.

What works for you? How do you hit reset? What are your shortcuts, the ones that bring you back to the present moment that was waiting all along?

There’s a color commentator in my head who spins me this way and that with a play-by-play of how I’m operating in the world. I call her Ethel. Ethel touts all the stats she remembers from the past and predicts the future.
She’s spent years up VERY close (inside my head close…), observing my life as if it were a sporting event. She is fascinated by the narrative of my challenging childhood, my heroic ability to step up the plate and make a run for the team. During times of drama she moves to the edge of her seat. Her enthusiasm is broadcast on all of my personal listening channels.
But a lot of the time Ethel is bored. Ordinary life just doesn’t hold her attention. That’s when she pulls up her old script, her disappointment with my performance. If I’m not feeling connected with my body, my deeper wisdom, I run the risk of believing her. A significant risk indeed.
Ethel thinks she has 20/20 vision, but her distant vision is seriously lacking. When I look at the world through her lens, I’m myopic too. I see the problems in front of me. I see myself as someone who needs fixing. I move from object to object, from task to task, from goal to goal, and I miss…basically the whole wide world around me. I’m lost in the game and believing Ethel about how well I’m doing.
But lately I’ve been noticing I can switch the lens. When I’m not enthralled with Ethel’s advice or commentary, I gain my peripheral vision. The world is infinitely wider and more spacious. It’s kinder, too.
Without the allure of the Big Game, she discovers there’s more to life. Where’s Ethel? I imagine her pulling up a cot and taking a well-deserved nap. She can feel retirement coming on. Without the sense of urgency, I imagine, she can just hang out, be there as I smell the flowers or wash the dishes.
She’s traded in her hyperfocus lens for a wider angle. And that spells peace in my world.

I just arrived home from a pilgrimage to the birthing lagoon of the gray whale in Baja. I had heard rumors about mother whales there who introduce their calves to humans, much as we take our offspring to meet other species. This image had lived in my imagination for several years, increasing its ranking in my bucket list.  But my watery imaginings didn’t begin to match the experience of being in their presence—the power of a whale’s eye view. I never imagined how actively the whale moms would pursue us, a few humans in a ponga boat half their size.  I could have never anticipated their eagerness as they bee-lined for the boat, babies close behind. They gently rubbed against the boat bottom, spouted in our faces, came close enough to be stroked.  Babies stuck their nozzles out to invite petting and practiced their “spy-hopping” (or rising vertically from the water) so close that we see the hairs on their faces. Some moments it was like sitting in a pot of whale soup. But this is  just the beginning.

My first thought is that they wanted something from us, like other wild creatures who have been “tamed” and seriously disturbed by being fed. But this has always been strictly forbidden in the lagoon, and access to the whales is limited. There’s a small window of a few weeks (just after birthing and nursing and before hitting the Pacific ocean for a long and serious migration to Alaska) that these giant moms reach out to humans.

The resulting connection has possibly saved the species from extinction. Whale watching is now more economically sustainable than whale hunting. Once this very lagoon was a full of the blood of slaughtered whales, and offspring died of starvation.  Once nearly extinct, now  gray whales are thriving.

This is the power of interspecies communication. But this is just the beginning.

In the moment when  I stared into the whale’s eye,  for that instant, and for days after, I felt something of the mysterious depth of things. The enormous power of that net that holds us all, the one that defies words or explanation. And it is still with me here in my land-locked world. The sense that we are all connected to all of life. The longing to remember this deepest of mysteries  as I go about my daily life, invisibly connected with all that is.

Last week I  co-hosted a cross cultural dialogue with Balinese visiting San Francisco. The focus was on Tri Hita Karuna, the ancient principle of balancing relationships with community, spirit, and nature. When I asked a beautiful Balinese singer to share. she said,

“All this talking and talking makes our heads explode.”

Then she led a long, lovely chant.  A sense of connection with each other, with the world, with spirit, saturated the room. We were singing our world back in balance.

It was a powerful moment  for me, a lifelong talkaholic. Later she apologized for NOT talking, saying it was impossible to express an IDEA about something so real. Her invocation simply and profoundly made it clear.  Ayu Lakshmi is her name, and, as an architect as well as a singer, she’s not a stranger to Western ways. She was simply and deeply clear about what things are expressible and what things aren’t.

The sharing resumed as we explored ways to bring indigenous wisdom of the Bali into our own lives and worlds. This is the  focus for the sponsoring organization, Bali Institute for Global Renewal. The harvest of ideas included creating and celebrating community, time in nature, honoring the everyday sacred in life through awareness and gratitude.

At the end of the evening, as we pitched in to clean up, there were no exploded heads in site.

Just some questions to share.

Where do you feel in balance in your life?

When you think of your relationship with nature, others, and spirit, what needs attention?

What relationships nurture you ? How do you nurture them back?

What one area could you give attention to today to bring balance back into your life? A talk with a dear friend? A walk in the park? A quiet time to pray or meditate?

Where does your head explode? What concrete thing could you do today to change that?

Some moments, even some entire days,  I can catch myself in the judgements and lies that keep me from the truth.  There’s such grace in that kind of clarity, that kind of peace. That is, when  I can catch the lies.

And then there are the other days.  The days I actually believe that “they’re” at fault.  By “they” I mean anybody (or anything) out there that I can judge or blame.  Like my dog for barking too much, my husband for not shutting the door, the weather for not being warmer or drier.  Not to mention the theme songs I play in my own brain.  Number one right now is There’s something wrong, and it’s because I’m not enough or there’s not enough.

These are the days I need a truth serum. Or some loving but stern Zen master to rap me up the side of the head.  One question can usually do that: really? Is it true? When I’m aware enough of that feeling of shrinking inside, the way I’m living from a small self, that’s usually enough to bring me back.

Sometimes Truth shows up in harsher ways: the illness or death of a loved one can take me right there.  To an opening of the heart big enough to embrace and allow the beauty around me to teach me to heal.  What a shame that this is what it would take.

I’ve decided I’d rather not wait. So I’m watching for the ways I shut down, the feeling in the chest, the judgement in the mind. When I get ahold of that, I can actually see whatever’s in front of me.   A blue jay bobbles past.  A funky painted jalopy is parked by the side of the road. A torment of wind whips the weather into yet another storm. I allow these things  to enlarge my heart. That’s how I know the truth serum took.

What about you?  How do you know you’re living in a lie that shrinks your heart?

Where is it in your body? Who or what is your truth serum?

I’m still looking and asking to find mine…again and again.

Sometimes I find myself slipping into an old robotic pattern, a certain contracted stuckness.  This trance-like state of being shows up in different ways: reading late into the night and awakening tired,  heading to the snack cupboard instead of going on a walk. Leaving a little late for an appointment and then rushing to get there, forgetting my goal of staying present in my life. As if this added drama gives me a life of purpose. I slip into a way of moving through my life as if  I’m wearing blinders. There’s very little space for different choices.  After all, that would upset the robot with blinders.

It’s much happier if  I Just Do It, without even noticing that what I’m feeling or believing. This trance can  last for hours or days. Later, as I debrief, I can find what I might have been believing.  But in the moment, I often don’t even pause to ask.  There’s a very thin line between the slight discomfort of a thought or feeling that I might be avoiding and the robotic take over.

But there’s a space inside this stuckness, an opportunity to break the pattern.  If I can remember to pause, even for a moment, there’s a space inside the stuckness, a little breath, that can reveal a spaciousness of the mind. When I find that breath, that space, a choice is possible.

When I remember to stop, I’m no longer a victim to my thoughts. From that spaciousness, there’s a chance for a creative relationship with my world.

Each of us has our own signs that we’re moving into an old robotic (and stuck) pattern.  What are yours?

What are some ways that you sometimes pause, come back, find a spaciousness? (This could happen in the bathroom with a locked door). Think of a place or time that might work in your day.

(Better yet) Find a time each day (or small moments several times a day) to pause and check, see if you have another option.

This is the prayer we used to close my woman’s circle for the past 11 years. I had learned from the Sufis, but it was  written by Marina Widerhehr. Last week was the group’s last circle.  We shared  “popcorn shapshots,” images of the precious and not-so-precious moments that have united us: the weddings, funerals, illnesses.  The laughter and tears.

Since then I’ve noticed my own popcorn images: photos of me in the full bloom of my twenties and thirties.  In the radiance of my forties and fifties. I noticed that only when I look at the snapshots from this distance am I able to  see the beauty that I was. When I was younger my mind was way to full of the mosquito beliefs brought to me by my inner spin doctor.  You’re too fat.  Your eyes are too close together.  Teeth too big. In a nutshell, There’s something wrong with me.

The unique joy of  this time of life is that my physical evaluation seems less important. Once I go down that slippery slide it’s a big plop that ends with major donations to cosmetic firms or plastic surgeons. There’s another, more efficient choice.  I can look in the mirror and catch the spin doctor at work.  When I see I have a choice whether or not to believe it,  I can catch the mosquitoes before they hatch.  I can see the beliefs as what they are:well-rehearsed mental loops that have no substance in reality.  Because I have now have ample evidence that there’s a whole lot RIGHT about me.

It takes determination to stay with the truth of my own beauty.  But when I do, I thrive.

And sometimes I need a little help.  That’s when I’m glad I remembered the prayer. God help me remember when I forget it.

Every year at this time I ask myself the question.  “Now where was I?” It’s as if I left “my life” for somebody else’s.  Which just might be true, at one level. Always the holidays are full to overflowing with the unexpected.  This year my daughter brought home puppies from a rescue mission that had gone awry and we set up an emergency vet clinic here, where we nursed and held half-pound infants, trying desperately to save them from the ravages of Parvo.  Only one of 15 made it, and it was happily delivered on Christmas eve. In the middle of all this sadness, carols, games with friends, and the Beatles on Wii were islands of laughter.

Which brings up the big savior: dark humor. I’ve lived long enough to keep in mind the story in family history WHILE going through the tough stuff.  This will be the Christmas of the Dead Puppies, and we will laugh.  Soon.

But right now, I’m brought back to my life as it was before.  It usually takes me at least a week to remember where I was, and sometimes it’s a depressing or confusing time.  Breadcrumbs lead me back about a month to where I was before, to what was calling me when I wasn’t reacting.  Back to the subtle glimmer in the eye of possibility, the whisper of what is to come.

I’m listening again, and luckily it’s still there.  The longing to hear what my body wants, to write more regularly, to return to learning Spanish.  To learn by heart some poems.  There it is.  My “new year’s list.”  Sometimes it takes some humor, some recovery time, and some deep listening.  And when my life is led by longing, resolutions seem beside the point.

Where were you?  What is your longing?  What’s on THAT list?

I just arrived home from a trip Over the River and Through the Woods to a mountain cabin.  The way there was a bit treacherous, but once there the scene was a holiday card in 3D.  Heaps of soft snow and stillness.  Fine powder drifting aimlessly through the starry night sky. A wood stove to feed and long nights of dreaming.

A much-needed respite from my usual busy life (and mind to match).

On the way back we came face to face with a snow plow and needed to move over perilously close to a ditch.  Our wheels began to spin as we struggled to get traction once again.

The very thing that had cleared our way nudged us into a little stuck place.

“Does this seem familiar?”  Something inside asked. How often have I moved into clarity in my life by questioning beliefs, finding an essential way of being that shows me a kinder way, and then begun to forget, to lose the momentum that showed up with that newer and freer way of being?

Let’s just say a lot.  Sound familiar to you?

What I love is that I understand this process better than ever before.  I know that sometimes I find myself in a slushy place, a place where I need to do some inner listening or question to find traction and resume.  That this is as much a part of the process as the part where I move forward.

And there is a little traction in knowing this.

Just as the little contact with the pavement moved our tires back on to the road and back to the momentum of the journey.  This is how we find our way back Home.

Where do you get stuck?  What gives you traction? How do you find your way back?  Your answers to these questions are an important part of any emergency travel kit.

As the rains set in here those of us who live in the Willamette valley know that we’re in for a long haul of  (mostly) soggy weather.  Unless I forget what I love about it, I begin to fight with this reality.  For some time I’ve kept a list to remind me of the subtle beauties of the coming season.  A partial list: subtle mists on the hills, rhythms on my roof, quiet time to dream, cozy evenings tucked in warm flannel.

When I forget these “favorite things,” there’s always poetry. One of my favorites for the season is from Hafiz, a 14th Century Persian poet.  He reminds me of the source of sun, lest I forget.  We’re all just the sun in drag.

My favorite line:

“you are a divine elephant with amnesia trying to live in an ant hole.” 

That’s how it can feel when I forget that I’m the Sun in Drag.  I offer you this blast of light as the days dim and the nights grow dark.

I’m learning to tolerate peace. I’m shocked as I see myself writing that, which takes me right out of peace. You see, my identity is so wrapped up in being a Peacemaker that it’s a Giant Step to admit that peace very often in my inner life has often been missing.

I’ve been a Peacenik my entire adult life. My credentials are impeccable. I became an anti-war activist when I discovered the realities of the Vietnam war. I organized an anti-nuke installation using little tree-farming cones to demonstrate insane levels of nuclear warheads in the early 80′s.

When I had kids my interest turned from imagining world peace (or whirled peas) to teaching peace, to bringing peace home to my life as a parent. I studied conflict resolution, wrote a book about Making Peace at Home, traveled around the country and worked with parents, teaching and learning practical skills.

But as hard as I worked to create peace for others, I didn’t have a lot of experience with inner peace in living my life, despite lots of meditation and yoga. It just wasn’t translating when chaos hit my outer world.

The last couple of years the dramas in my life have become less pressing.   There are days that I rest in the inner calm, when I bathe peacefulness, inside and out.

And then there are the  days that I notice there’s a lot to worry about in the world, a lot to fix in my life.  Mind sometimes goes into conflict and stress without a good reason, except that’s the way it’s been wired over the years. This takes me right back to the practices that keep me sane, enabling me to extend my ability to tolerate a world with less drama. When I’m aware of that choice.

And when I’m not, there’s always another opportunity to breathe into frustration or compulsion,  to refrain or to retrain this recalcitrant child of a mind.  To question a mind run amok. To increase my tolerance for peace.

Sea anemones are among my favorite sea creatures. Fortunately Disney’s crew didn’t make them into a character in  Little Mermaid. It would be a grave injustice, They don’t like the press.

They’re lovely just as they are, in their shy beauty. Colorful, vibrant. Content to stay in one place and ingest new nutrients. They stay perched and open and lovely until their space is invaded, and then a quick poke sends them into contraction and protection.

I’ve been noticing my own movement from open loveliness to lovely solitude. Experiencing that comforting feeling of closing in around myself when the way of it seems too harsh.

Recently a young man I knew and loved was washed out to sea. Ouch. A poke. I’ve needed to pull inside to digest the news. I’ll expand out again to show up for his grieving family. That’s what I simply do, in my world. Usually I’m among the first to show up with a casserole, a sign of my Midwestern roots.

But this time I needed to contract, to absorb the shocking news. I needed to let his death at such a young age teach me what I keep forgetting about the preciousness of life.

Anyone who’s touched a sea anemone knows that there’s a soft sucking on your finger when they’re poked. They’re biologically designed to get nourishment from the invader.

This has been my nourishment. To savor the memory of Mark’s smile, his gentle goodness on the planet. To simply resonate with the memory as well as the loss of his being here on the planet.

To wonder at the mystery of the sea, a force of such beauty and such destruction.

To experience the ouch of this grief.

To learn what I’m supposed to know from the enormity of such loss.

And this is plenty.

I was just so proud of myself a month or two ago. I was fairly convinced that I’d figured out the major puzzles of my life. Or at least one major puzzle, the tendency to put stuff in my mouth when I wasn’t hungry.
I honestly believed that attending Geneen Roth’s residential retreat and living the Women Food & God Way had brought such a bolt of enlightenment that I would never eat compulsively again.
That was before I started moving everything out of half of my house for a long-anticipated remodel. Before I began traveling and celebrating the freedom of summer. Before I started working on a book project, or at least before I experienced my favorite procrastination technique.
You guessed it. Putting food on my mouth when I’m not hungry. (Sound familiar to anyone?)
In other words, I let my external circumstances mess with my inner resolve and equanimity.
So here I am again, stuck with the pesky reality of being human, complete with some very deeply grooved habits.
What do I make this mean? Time was (not so long ago) when it meant I had an excuse to give up and go back to the same old way….fogging out more and more on what I was eating and when.
But what I know now is that this old habit is a “temple bell” summoning me to wake up. To choose clarity over fog.
Here’s my plan. To reclaim what was working before. To stay aware of how much and what I’m eating. And to ask myself some good questions if I’m not.
Questions like: what’s going on? What am I believing that would convince me that it’s a good idea to abandon my body’s real needs for my mind’s immediate impulse?
If there’s something that needs changing, I can do that. But I’m much more likely to choose the appropriate action step when I clear up some of the inner fog first.
I’m looking forward to sharing this inquiry with my friend Lisa and a few of you at a 3-day retreat in October. But right now it’s an inside job.

I just spent more than a week at the Oregon coast, a place I usually feel instantly at home. Being on the ocean simply returns me to source.   It’s a short cut for me.

So when I decided to go there to get started on a book I’ve been wanting to write, I expected a vacation.  It was a vacation, all right.  I vacated my body and moved right into my head.  The mental work of framing my ideas and beginning such a large project had me set up housekeeping in the world of the mind, which happens to be what I was writing about.  I got a good start on the book, but I’ve had a series of headaches from the mental strain.  Not an accident, I think.

What’s just as difficult is that during the frustration and challenges of living in my head, I returned to my old ways of compulsive eating.  Only this time, after having retreated with Geneen Roth last spring, it’s harder to stay in denial.  Which makes the whole thing much more painful.

At the same time, I’m preparing to co-lead a workshop on mindfulness in eating and movement.  It’s only a month away now, and the Simon Legree that lives in my head says it’s time to get my stuff together.

But…my heart says to simply return home.  To my body.  Body knows.  And when I remember that….and stay in my body, in the experience of eating, being, writing,  I’m home.