Today I discovered a new part of me. Well, actually, it’s a very old part, but I saw it in a new way.

This often happens when I’m journaling. I’m writing, then a thought pops into my head that I suddenly, DESPERATELY want to act on. Today, I have to pay rent. This part REALLY wanted me to get up and check if I had enough cash in my wallet, so we would know if I had to go to an ATM first. 

I am going to have to do this at some point. But, I remind this part, it doesn’t matter whether we check now or later, and actually, it would disrupt the journaling, which I’d already decided was the most important thing right now. 

I have been practicing for a while now, not getting up and immediately responding to whatever thought pops up during something I committed to focus on. 

How’s that going? …I use the verb “practice” for a reason. 

Anyway. Today, I stayed with this voice. I didn’t get up to check my wallet. I listened. I talked to it. I felt what was happening in my body. Here’s what I wrote:

As I sit with you, I feel you getting processed and my stomach starts to digest and I have to poop. There is a feeling of sadness or disappointment, like we’re giving up or failing somehow. I sit with that. Now it is more in my neck. Pulsing. A lump of tension in my throat. “What do you want?” I ask. I don’t get an answer. I place my hands gently on my neck and keep listening. 

It is very distant, and it is a young child, crying unconsolably.

I let go of trying to get an answer. Crying unconsolably doesn’t usually yield that. So I just keep my hands on it and breathe. My mind races for a solution. But when I’m crying, I just want to know someone is there. So I start repeating, “I’m right here.” 

I’m right here. I’m right here. 

I start to stroke my neck and chest, and notice how soft the skin is. I continue to remind it of my presence, while soothing myself from the outside. 

I’m right here. I’m right here. 

Eventually, we relax. My shoulders drop and my stomach settles. It starts to be able to talk to me. It is scared. It wants to do everything right. It wants to make sure we get everything done. It is panicked. 

“I understand. There is a lot to do. But there is time. And it’s not as important as being with you right now.” It shies away and doesn’t believe me. I assure it. “Being with you right now is the most important thing I can be doing.” 

I am firm about this. I know there’s s a lot to do, but I’ve lived too many days racing through my to-do list thinking that relief was around the corner to fall for this trap and let this part of me down. This part of me thinks it needs to take extreme responsibility for getting everything done and being perfect. 

I am absolutely positive that the best thing I can do is spend a few minutes soothing this tender, tired child. 

Once it knew that I really was there, and wasn’t going to leave to do something “more important,” I heard a tiny, clear voice: “I need you.” I start to cry at this vulnerable confession from a part of me that never felt entitled to say this before. It needed me. It would try to get my attention with anxious reminders, probably hoping to be rewarded for taking care of us, soothing the fear of missing something important. But the list is endless, because that’s not really what we need to be cared for or soothed.

We just need each other. A moment to breathe together. A moment to be the most important thing.

“I need you,” it said. Gently crying, I tell it, “I’m right here.” 

When you’re done chucking at that Seinfeld reference, here’s a prayer:

May I be an easy vehicle for laughter

May I be smooth passage for tears

May my heart beat with all that is

I have a lot on my plate this week.

Looking at my calendar, my shoulders start climbing toward my ears and my chest tightens.

I’m tensing up because I assume it’s going to be hard. 

What I see is that it’s going to be full. 

Hard is not actually a requirement. (Unless I’m trying to PROVE I’m good enough because someone modeled an idea of “hard work” that I’m trying to live up to [cough] Dad…)

I’m done prioritizing some dumb Dad story over enjoying my life.

I want ease.

I feel the power of just speaking this into existence. But, how do I actually live it?

Create ease in my body and mind right now.

Create ease in my body and mind while I work.

Since I’m writing this blog now, I’m going to start with ‘while I work.’

I decided that what will best support my ease is to dive into this blog, so I dove into this blog. I started by telling myself, “let it be easy.” It does not have to be grueling or self-punishing. Let me repeat that. It DOES NOT have to be grueling or self-punishing.

As I sit here and type, I’m going slow, breathing, and staying with my body. I’m noticing when tension creeps in, and relaxing BEFORE I continue. 

I also notice my desire to be perfect and sit here until every word is right. My perfectionism won’t rest (ever) and wants me ground down into a pulverized piece of dust, water-deprived and head aching. Thing is, I don’t want that. And I’m the big boss. I wear the leopard print shorts around here.

So I’m just going to witness that part of me and let it sit next to me while I do things differently. 

I write down what’s coming, let it flow “good” or “bad,” and trust that time will be my friend and collaborator and when I come back to edit. (I’m here in the future, editing, and I was right.) It will be clear what is important and what is not.

When I feel complete, I soothe that perfectionistic part of me and tell it, “You can trust me. We’re done for now. We’re going for a walk and we’ll come back later.”

So that’s bringing ease into doing the work. Now for the right now. This one’s for you, version of me looking ahead at the calendar.

I’m often tempted to cover all my bases and prepare and think of every possible thing that might happen or what I might need or what that person might say, or, or, or….

But when the moment actually comes, it never feels like I predicted. Something I was excited about disappoints me. Something I was anxious about actually felt okay. Some random thing I could never have anticipated changes how I see and do everything anyway.

It’s not useful to spend the currency of the present trying to predict the future. 

Part of making things harder than they need to be is drawing the “hard” toward us, into the present moment.

Why do we try to predict the future anyway? Because WE WANT TO FEEL EASE NOW. The irony! (Go ahead, let yourself laugh at how silly our minds are sometimes.)

The more I focus on the future and try to pin my security to that, the more I’m actually pushing my security away. The emotion I want to feel, can only ever be felt NOW! When I’m feeling it! 

So, instead of trying to feel ease by fixating on the future, I have to relax and allow ease. Right, the fuck, now.

Here’s one way. I name something in my life that I trust. (I am a creative person. I have things to say. I have done hard things. There are people who love me. I am safe to sit here and just breathe.) These things aren’t going away. I let myself relax into them.

How does trust feel? 

I can exhale. My focus comes back to my body, in the present. My shoulders start to drop. I feel solid. I’m breathing more easily.

So when I notice my body start to get tense or anxious, I practice feeling trust. I bring that into right now. That way, when life comes, I can meet it with ease.

The future will come in its own time.

It’s okay to feel good now. 

Yesterday was the new moon. This is the phase when the moon is completely in shadow, invisible from Earth. So it’s darker out, which means a time for going inward and letting the inner voice speak.

I love noticing nature’s rhythms. It’s freeing to let go of my agenda and lean into this larger force.

So I did a little ceremony to invite in the energy of the new moon. First, I prepared my space. I turned off most of the lights and lit candles. I put this song on repeat. I tidied up anything that caught my attention. I got myself a glass of water. I made a little altar. A quartz crystal (representing air), a candle (fire), an abalone shell (water) and a lemon (earth).

Curating the environment gave me time to ease in and go deeper. (Like setting context before sharing a poem.)

I did all of this prep, not knowing what would happen. I didn’t set out to write a poem. I just got in the zone, and trusted. Sometimes, I get nervous without a plan or a structure. Okay. That’s there. But I just leaned in - that’s the essence of the new moon. And this came out. And it felt really good.

savor this frequency

the space between

being

hearts silent

connected

retrain my diaphragm

to breathe smooth 

to hold steady

when it wants to slip away

to sip slowly

when it wants to grasp for air

the other muscles

iron out their nervous wrinkles

clear

the darkness

lights a new path

hovering over the old

free to make a different choice

can it be easier?

can I let myself be led

by a softer voice?

one that can’t be heard over the din

of traffic

or reality tv

one that can’t compete

with jagged self-doubt

finer than the comb of “what should I do?”

grander than what’s possible to understand

sometimes

the curtain just opens

and the nakedness of now is center stage

every other voice falls away

nothingness

embrace

I had a dream the other night where some lines of a poem came through. One of the characters said them to me right before I woke up. This happens sometimes and it’s very exciting. It feels like someone or something is speaking to you through your own subconscious. 

I try to be available to receive inspiration as often as I can. I use meditation, visualization, writing and talking to people to keep myself clear and open. I believe we can all use these tools to plug into the Universe.

But sometimes, life piles up and my pipe gets clogged. I sit down to write and everything feels lame and overthought. Or I lay down to meditate and my brain keeps pulling me out.

I’m currently on the East coast where I grew up, visiting people and places from my past. This triggers ALLL these old versions of myself, and A LOT of interference. I’m trying to keep my channel clear and stay present, but I’m experiencing an avalanche of old thoughts and feelings threatening to bury me. It’s been really frustrating, and sad. 

Before this trip, I felt so strong. I had tasted the next version of myself coming down the pipeline. She felt SO GOOD. Clear, grounded, and easily in flow. Now, it feels like I’m falling back into old patterns and losing touch with the person I’m becoming.

In retrospect, these moments of regression always precede a big leap forward. I know it. I’ve seen it a million times, in myself and others. It’s almost as if they were the necessary pulling back of the slingshot before we launch forward. Still, it is hard to weather these feelings as they are happening. I keep meditating, I keep visualizing, I keep writing and talking, and it’s still hard.

Sometimes, that’s all you can do. To just allow it to be hard and stop trying to force yourself to feel different.

And so I tell myself, as if I’m that new version of myself from the future, “It’s okay. I love you. I’m coming.”

?

What if 

I let go of the thought

that perfect is out there,

somewhere else.

?

What if 

I have everything I need,

but never stopped

to check.

?

What if

I bathed in the warmth

of what’s here,

right now.

Here, my inner richness sits,

while I search the whole world

for the treasure I’ve painstakingly carried

every, single, step.

The gold inside

waits patiently to be discovered

the moment you open the door.

An ocean

waves, and waves, and waves,

knowing someday, you’ll come home.

Your hands reach out

to hold you.

Your heart bursts forth

to feel you.

Your eyes long to close

so you can see.

Okay, so that’s the poem I wrote for this week. But here’s the very first thing I wrote:

“Oh god, what am I thinking, I need to get into flow, how will I do that, just keep writing. Listen to something that will calm me. I feel really good about being here. I have some anxiety.”

Sometimes, there’s more to clear out before inspiration strikes. But today, this was enough. Every time I sit down to write, I’m afraid that nothing “good” will surface. But, 9 times out of 10, patience yields something I’m proud to share. If I can stick with it through my mind doubting and struggling to adjust its rhythm, I can find the flow. It helps me to think of it this way, to remind myself that my job is not to try to write. My job is to stay open long enough for my thoughts to get out of the way so something more interesting can come through. Of course, I put my brain to work finding the right words, and shaping what comes out. But if I let it get too involved, it strangles the magic. Here’s to the mindfuck of trying to not try, just the right amount.