It’s December 27th. Which means a lot of conversations about the NEW year. What do I want? Who do I want to be? What are my goals?

I like self-reflecting and setting intentions. It’s clarifying, organizing and empowering.

AND, it can be a lot of pressure. To wrap up the past, leave old ways behind and write the future.

A fresh start is REALLY appealing. Like peace and satisfaction are on the other side of a comprehensive list, or a perfectly worded intention. And hey, sometimes, they is.

Personally, I visualize myself meditating on a mountainside like a little Buddha. Nothing bothers me because I’ve found the solution to all my problems. “This year, I’m going to be completely present and stop setting impossible expectations I can’t meet.”

. . . mmkay

How do I observe the new year as a marker of change, without the pressure to magically be perfect?

After asking a big, honking question I don’t have the answer to yet, I’ll start with, “What’s true?”

It’s winter. It’s cold and dark out. It’s ‘the holidays.’ We might be on break, traveling or outside our normal routine. Some of us are with people that stress us out. I’m going to take a big swing and say, some of us are tired. There’s a lot going on.

I’m struggling to generalize about who you are, what you’re experiencing, what I’m experiencing and offer answers.

I want to be able to tell you one thing. I want to give you whatever you’re here hoping to get. And yet, I’m just another human person on the other side of a screen riding the waves of whatever the hell this all is.

There is no ‘one way.’ No new year’s resolution to save us all. No permanent arrival. There are moments of clarity. There are moments of connection. There are moments when we recognize the absurd truth and just laugh.

That feels good.

To open up and let all the messiness, imperfection and incompleteness breathe.

There’s no one way. But there is a little freedom at the bottom of the truth.

More of that, please. More laughter. More truth. More closeness. Okay?

I’ve built my life around avoiding cold weather. I live in LA and spend lots of time in Mexico (ahhhh 85-90 degrees of sweet, sweet humid air).

But yesterday, I realized a shortcoming of this genius plan. Winter is the time for hibernation, just ask a bear. And like the Moon, every month, my body cycles through weeks of being more energized and social, then a week of being more sensitive and withdrawn. By running away from hibernation weather, I’m perpetuating the idea that I should be ON all the time. I’m not respecting my nature.

Regardless of the body we’re in, we all suffer from exhausting standards of productivity and perfection. Thankfully, for some of us, those standards shift during “the holidays,” this mysterious period of time in November and December, sometimes creeping into the border months of October and January, where we get some grace to take time off, be less responsive and “be with family.” 

Do we really do that though? Do we really allow ourselves to rest, set boundaries with technology and spend quality time with loved ones? Or do we get a pumpkin spice latte and a tree-scented candle and continue right on being stressed and preoccupied with what’s going on in the world?

How do we actually Winter?

I think in our heart of hearts, we all just want to be cozy and safe. To get to that part of the day when we can just sit on the couch and watch TV, or be in bed snuggling up. WHO DOESN’T WANT THAT?! To let go the day, not think about what we have to do tomorrow, and just BE.

The problem is, all day long, all year long, we’re training ourselves to be…not snuggly. To be immediately responsive to every notification. To chase down every fear and worry that surfaces and get up to fix it. We stay in a state of alertness and tension, anticipating what’s next, ready to be interrupted. Then we finally get to the couch or the bed we spent all day craving and it’s IMPOSSIBLE to shut off those processes.

Do I have answers? I sure have a lot of questions. I sure feel overwhelmed when it all comes down on me and I don’t have it together. I sure feel tired and frustrated and sad when I feel far away from how I want to be.

Here’s what helps me. I don’t have social media. I don’t watch the news. I unsubscribe from things that take more energy and value than they give. When I get a text or email, I ask myself if I have the space to read it and respond before I open it. (I notice that I’m better at this when I’m not tired.) If a thought pops into my brain and it seems urgent, I take a moment to separate the thing and the sense of urgency. Is this thing really urgent, or is it tapping into my fear? (It’s pretty much always the fear one.) 

Basically, I limit the input, and I slow down. This gives me more space to feel. And then I feel safer, because the whole world doesn’t seem like a raging dumpster fire that I have to put out. It feels a little more like being snuggled up on the couch. 

?

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. 

This week, I dove DEEP into my mind. I wrestled and wriggled and fought with myself. I straddled extremes and struggled to land in the middle. A symptom of this condition, I wrote two things. One - a gentler take. A description of the place I want to be, instead of the mind cavern I’ve been wandering through. The other - the cavern itself. The harsher environment and what it feels like to be there. I flip-flopped back and forth, a little of this, a little of that, unsure which was IT. That paralyzing uncertainty is all too familiar, so I’m choosing the third way. Here are both, co-existing.

Something Softer

I want something softer.

Something softer

than sticking my hand in the sharps bin of my mind.

Something easier

than wading through thoughts lined with booby traps and black holes.

I want to bathe in warm sand. 

Curves cradled, floating

in an ocean of shifting dunes.

Wearing each tiny grain like a stand-alone diamond.

Touching twinkling stars in a sky of smooth skin.

Lying peacefully under the blanket of the setting sun 

that falls and rises each day like slow, even breath.

Trusting the sky to stay open and the ground to stay firm,

I can rest.

The magic of nature’s wiser hand

carries me beyond my wildest dreams

and through my willful-est worries. 

There’s something about being humbled

that makes me feel safe. 

A cosmic smirk woven into every thread.

A pattern I don’t understand,

but must have a place in.

The Part of Me That Wants to Hurt

There’s a part of me that wants to hurt, that insists on it. It’s not as loud as it used to be. It’s not as much of me as it used to be. Usually, it’s not even there. But when it’s there, it reminds me of when it was all of me. When I was drowning in the fog. When I would lay down and pray to be taken, somewhere quiet.

Relief. I craved reprieve from an inside world that didn’t relent. It cast its shadow on the outside world, too. Every interaction threatened to confirm my worst suspicions. The walls closed in around my smallest parts.

Escape. I wanted to be anywhere other than where I was. But I couldn’t leave my body, so I shut the windows and boarded the doors. Might as well be swallowed into darkness. 

I visit this boarded up house from time to time. My nails remember scratching at the walls. My voice knows pleading to no one to let me out. If I stay for too long, I can feel the shrinking. My options narrow to two: explode into chaos or delete my existence. There is nothing between. There is no right amount of space to take up. It’s all, or none. There is no some. Some is too fragile. Some is too scary. Some doesn’t compute. And yet, life is lived in the some. Life hurts some. My body gets tired some. My mind slows down some. People move closer, and further away. And on it goes. No final rest. No perfect solution. The part of me that wants to hurt wants self-destruction, if it can’t have self-transcendence. Just being my self seems impossible.