Adagio.

If you’re a musician, dancer or simply an appreciator of music, you tend to notice rhythm. And nature is absolutely a composer of its own, if not the original maestro.

Whenever I struggle to steady my breathing, to calm my pulse or to slow my racing thoughts,

I look outside or I walk to the ocean. It reminds me almost instantly what’s real, the organic rhythm of life of which we all belong.

A breeze in the grass.

Swaying palms and their dancing shadows beneath the sun.

A snail’s leisurely, yet determined trail.

The familiar pace of the sea’s ebbs and flows.

When my breath slows and I match its rhythm with the world around me, I feel connected, safe, peaceful. It’s a mere change in focus and without intentional daily practice, I forget how vital and medicinal these moments are.

More than ever before, we must prioritize peace.

We must bring the world back to its true rhythm by matching ourselves with its natural tempo. We are but one instrument in the orchestration of the universe – AND our song is influential. Any member of a musical ensemble knows that one instrument can steer – we can slow the tempo, raise the dynamic, cue our fellow musicians to follow our lead.

Play on, friends.

Remember that we are both the orchestra and the conductor.

Let’s choose a melody of peace.

White-Knuckled Hope.

Lately, it feels as if the air itself is heavy, hanging over us like a weighted blanket. The sea is rugged, the waves like shark teeth against the stormy sky above. The winds toss and turn as I do in bed at night. 

I ran to the cliffs this morning and it felt like my body was moving through molasses. Progress feels slow, arduous and tiring right now, not just personally but collectively.

I’m doing my best to keep fear at bay, to stay informed while also tempering my outrage at world events. I’m constantly reminding myself that this is a long game – and I must sustain my energy so I can be of use, to support others, to advocate, to resist. 

I may be white-knuckling hope, but I’m still gripping. I’ll continue to lace my sneakers and move my feet. I’ll continue to breathe through the panic. I’ll continue to speak up over the noise. 

Continuing will look different for all of us.

Maybe it’s one step forward.

Maybe it’s standing our ground.

Maybe it’s simply breathing.

Whatever it takes.

Continue to hold on – to truth, to each others, to hope.

Ripple.

There is a lot of struggle in the world, especially in this country right now.
Often times, I find myself dismissing my own pain, fears or grief – knowing it’s unremarkable, we all carry our share. And focusing outward allows me to distract from the aches in my heart.
My wise mind knows though, of course, that pain goes nowhere unless I address it. And the stings, stabs and throbs remind me of the parts within that remain unhealed and that are my responsibility.
It’s easy to feel helpless right now – but reminding myself that doing my personal work, healing myself, growing and expanding my consciousness contributes to the whole. I believe in ripples, in the Oneness of the universe.
I’ve had the privilege of experiencing community over the last few years and it’s been a driving force in my growth. I’m tremendously grateful for those that walk this journey with me today. I used to think that healing was a solitary activity, that my burdens were mine alone to carry and yes, we have the responsibility to tend to our wounds, especially those that influence our relationships. AND I’ve learned that healing can also be collective.
In fact, it MUST be.
America has never (yet) been true to its claim of “freedom and justice for all.” Perhaps the crumbling of existing systems will lead us to rebuild into a more authentic vision of these values, and there is much work to do before that can happen.
The idea of collective healing, unity in reform and rebuilding is giving me hope today.
My freedom must include yours.
Justice must include all.
I commit to healing myself as one ripple in the ocean of healing ahead.

💙

Muscling Hope.

Hope is a muscle.

We’re born with the cells inside of us, the potential to build a strong and flexible tissue that holds us steady and strong throughout our lives. Though if we neglect our hope, fail to cultivate or exercise it, the muscle weakens or atrophies like any other. 

Remaining muscles pick up the slack and strain to support us in the absence of hope. Without the conviction that things will turn out okay, that we will be okay, we try desperately to anticipate what’s coming, to prepare against threats even though the future is always unknown.

Our bodies, our minds, our hearts are soon depleted from carrying the weight of fear. Living in a state of hypertension physically, mentally and emotionally is unsustainable. And the only remedy is to release, to accept that we don’t know and to believe in the possibility of good.

And it’s a process. Muscles literally tear themselves in order to rebuild in a stronger form. Hope is the same. We must rip apart old narratives of fear, fracture fibers of trepidation, release built-up tension before we can repair and strengthen with new cells of belief. And we must also change our focus to recognize hope all around us. Like physical exercise, we must make it a practice of seeing the good in the world, finding the light in the shadows, even the most minute of specks.

The stronger our hope, the less shaken we are by fear. May our grip on hope hold firm… May it strengthen and carry us until we no longer need it… until all fears are left behind. 

That day must come. 

It’s on the way. 

It’s already here if we choose to believe.

Dance of Resistance

I’ve had this peculiar feeling this week of wanting to both escape and cocoon, simultaneously. Escape implies getting out or away from a threat. Cocooning is more isolating, pulling inside and shutting out the world. I suppose both are forms of retreat, a withdrawal either away or within.
Some may call it avoidant, it can be. And it is also completely necessary.

Resistance is a dance, a balance between stepping in and stepping out.

Depending on one’s level of privilege, retreat is much easier for some than others. And in whatever, even minute way, we must prioritize peace. We must get away and/or go within – lately, I’m choosing the latter.
I fully intend to step back out on the streets, raising my fist and voice in solidarity.

And, just as resistance is a dance, it is a song with varying dynamics. Sometimes, we get loud and other times, soft.

Prayer. Meditation. Inner peace. Self-love in defiance of societal rejection.
All of it is powerful. Even a thought, a word of affirmation, a message to a friend who is struggling – we contribute to the global energy of peace by finding it within ourselves.
Thus, retreat is NOT avoidance.
In the midst of social unrest, finding rest and calm inside ourselves only amplifies the message.

Step in, and step out.
Shout, and pray.
This is not (yet) a somber death march. And retreat is not defeat.
Let’s dance and sing our way to freedom.
Together.

Yearning.

The Statue of “Liberty” has a plaque with a poem by Emma Lazarus stating “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…” Lady Liberty has literally and figuratively been a beacon, a symbol of freedom, at least to the world outside. Lately, it feels like Emma’s words are less of an invitation to immigrants outside this country’s borders and more a description of its own citizens.

I hear the “tired” in the voices of my friends and family. I see the “poor” in the homelessness encampments that permeate our streets. I huddle with the masses as I, too, grieve the lack of progress and seeming regression of social policy, legislation and leadership. Along with so many of us, I’ve marched in protest after protest, declaring that “this is what Democracy looks like,” clinging to the belief that these words, my fist in the air, my body blocking traffic made an impact…make an impact…matter.

I am so tired. We all are. Sometimes, freedom feels more like the rest in closing my eyes for a minute, shutting out the world. But I know better – ignorance and rejecting reality are not freedom. And if I close my eyes right now, I’m dishonoring all who have come before me, who have marched for the rights I have today.

In this moment right now, I can still “breathe free,” as Emma says in her poem. I still have the freedom right now to stand, to march, to speak, to be… and I am in good company. We may be the “huddled masses,” but masses nonetheless. This country is full of people who believe in freedom. And there is power in simply believing.

Let’s choose to believe in Lady Liberty, even if she has only ever been but a symbol. Let’s believe that we can finally BECOME what America has always pledged to be: a land of the free.

https://vote.gov

Island of the Gods (Bali)

A month later, still reflecting on Bali adventures and forever grateful for the experience. 🌺

Island of the Gods

Waking up in Bali feels much like a dream,
The entire morning sky, a strawberry cream.
At the horizon, the sun lifts with a yawn,
Frenzied seabirds dance to greet the dawn.

Though the ocean is no stranger to me,
the warm, Indian currents set me free.
Smooth stones and seaglass glint on the shore,
Like human hearts with time, rough edges no more.

As the salty waves healed any cut on the skin,
It seemed the sea, too, cleansed pain from within.
As the flow jostled clicking stones below my ears,
I lay back into trust and released many tears.

The “Island of the Gods” lives up to its name,
A temple to each village and each house the same.
Faith woven into lives as prayers into gifts,
A common purpose held by many, more easily lifts.

Deities a plenty, and yet one God, One Divine,
Unanimous love makes every smile a shrine.
When faith is fact for all, there’s no cause for fear.
Even, when into a Bali traffic jam, you steer.

Balinese faith is more than ritual, it’s a work of art.
In handmade offerings, every flower plays a part.
Beauty and color are held sacred and dear,
And it beams from faces grinning from ear to ear.

“Suksma,” dear Bali, for all that I’ve learned,
The person who left is not the same that returned.
Knowing your peace and unity helps me to believe,
That the world may seek the same and one day, achieve.

Love to the ghost of myself, 10 years ago… Today, we live unhaunted, thanks to you.

Underneath the Costume

Uncharted.

Life is a series of unmapped constellations.

A connect-the-dot exercise yet to be drawn.

Star after exploding star, I see only the debris, the trails of sparks, the dust…

I try to draw lines from point to point but find myself always stumbling along in the in-between space. 

Tell me, please, how do these events connect?

“Help me,” I beg. “Show me how I get from here to there.” I’ve been running for so long, my legs ache. How many more steps? 

One day, I think I’m getting there and the next moment, the finish line vanishes like a taunting mirage in the distance. Like a Cheshire cat’s grin, it seems to snicker as it fades and leaves me aimless. 

Then again, we are all stardust, right? We’re all specks of matter in the universe. We’re all part of something bigger and we likely will never see or understand the whole picture… that’s for the eyes of whatever divinity we believe in. 

So, once again, we realize that life is really about not knowing. The unknown. We can dream, we can hope, we can even draw stars on a map and aim for them… but there’s no outline. No steering wheel. No reigns. And it’s our choice whether we keep trying to pave some semblance of a path or to dive into the abyss with reckless abandon.

The lines I draw around myself will only entrap me, tangle me in strings of expectation. Self-bondage. There is freedom in erasing. Everything becomes open, negative space.

An uncharted map.

Where do we go?

Nowhere. Everywhere. 

Anywhere.

Blank.

I’ve always loved fantasy, living in the world of imagination. I was a voracious reader growing up, devouring series of books that transported me to another realm, world or universe. Even when I set the book down, I daydreamed of being a character in that author’s mind, engaging with a plot so different from my own.

As much as I loved my mental adventuring, I didn’t stay in Narnia, Hogwarts, or the Shire when I closed the book. I always woke up (sometimes, under protest) to reality and to my truth. I wonder if the same can be done with unhealthy narratives we create in our own minds. Aren’t delusions just fantasies about our lives? Even painful memories, they’re still just memories – old records of a time that has passed. The setting, the plot, the protagonist have evolved. Can we dismiss these internal stories as easily as we can a fairy tale?

Can we look back at the people we used to be like characters in a story that has long ended? Can we thank them for their journey, honor their pain and let them go? A eulogy is still a story, and one with closure.

Can we turn off the audiobook running on repeat in our heads? It can be scary to detach from what’s familiar, even if it’s unhealthy or damaging. Because without the story, how do we know what to expect? Without an outline, will we fall off the page? Who are we without the character roles of the past?

Maybe the new adventure is the blank page itself.
One word at a time, just begin.
There is so much more to come than what was.

To be continued.