The somatic space in between the pit and the ease

I must come clean up front with this post. The ideas and thoughts arose during a fabulous conversation with my collaborative partner and wonderful friend, Courtney Hess. We meet every Thursday morning to witness and support each other’s lives. This morning, there was a grander inspiration and collaboration. I’m sure we are not original in this, but it is not something either of us hears much in the ‘just breathe’ movement.

The Just Breathe movement is important and is born out of largely eastern somatic and spiritual practices. We all breathe, true. But to do so consciously is a practice. Anyone anywhere can utilize the principals. For free. For impacting results.

Basically, we breathe in fully, with awareness, bringing the breath deep into the belly. We breathe out to let go of what is no longer needed. Most of the world spiritual practices have words for breath; prana, nephesh, pneuma, and more. Our breath is life, and in the Song of Songs the word nephesh, associated with the throat and breathing, is used as a sense of identity and self knowing.

In my meditation practice, I hear my Buddhist teacher’s voice guiding my breath in and out, right at the tip of the nose, total awareness to the life and energy that flows in a circular motion. It is how I move myself out of panic attacks. It is how I go to center. It is a joining of my own life force with the life force of the whole universe.

With Qi Gong, I’ve experienced the inhale of two substances; air and qi. The air fills my lungs to expansion down deep. Qi continues to flow through into the whole of the body. They are simultaneous but the qi remains and is not exhaled. Discipline and practice offers this extraordinary experience.

But today. Courtney began by saying that we are often told to breathe and to pay attention to where the stress is, where the emotion is in our body. We pin point it in our throats or left shoulder or the pit in our stomach. It can be so profound we feel 100% overtaken. What he has started to do is to simultaneously pinpoint where it is not.

The negative space. The somatic space where the stress is not.

I’m calling it the Courtney Principal. For now. I’ll find a better term for it, and there is likely already a Sanskrit or Pali word for it.

Where our fast-paced, coffee-fueled wide-eyed wonder went with this is to two places.

1. As we do the important work of noticing what is rising, following the emotion or stress, acknowledging when it has peaked and then enter the diminishment of it, we know nothing is permanent. We can move through the hardest things becuase they always diminish. Sometimes in minutes, sometimes much longer. We’re talking about the acute phase and awareness. Where it is felt in the body gives us somatic information to see what it has to teach us. Our bodies are always teaching us. We look at these body parts as metaphor to know the teaching. When we add to this where we are NOT feeling the stress, the emotions, the overwhelm, we can draw on that part of the body to assist the process of self-care. For example: if the election upheaval is causing stress in the pit of your stomach, it will feel like it is everywhere. But it likely isn’t. Where isn’t it? Not in your knees, then go walking. Not in your shoulders, then loosen with arm stretches. Not in your throat, then sing/shout/cry out. We utilize a wholeness in the moment of overwhelm.

2. The other thought we collaborated around-toward, is that our emotions and stress and yes, even the overwhelm are not for rushing through. They are organic aspects of something real, and we are better off to sit with, feel fully, and watch our breath return. So, to name where the stress is located in the body, and then name where it is not, is to remind yourself that you have strengths beyond the turmoil, and you become your best resource. You draw from your own strength that already is present. And you see that while the overwhelm may be 100% in the pit of your stomach it is not in 100% of your being.

My belief system understands God/Creator is the ground of our being. That is the point of sacred resource within.

We recognize that this presumes relative mental health. For our beloveds who deal with true overwhelm and psycho/spiritual/mental struggle, these ideas might just be enough to get you to the resources of counselors, therapists, and perhaps even time away in the hands of professionals.

Know your body and breath. Know yourself. know your stress. You are always your best resource.

Believing in you,

Amy

(Thanks Courtney!!!!!)

Glimpses

It has been months since I last wrote. In the last post I wrote that I was staying with my Mom during this pandemic for two weeks. The original intention had been 4 days. The circumstances changed in her care and I stayed extra. In the end, I stayed 2.5 months. Two and a half glorious months with my Mom. What a gift. Because of the pandemic. Because of the pandemic, all of my work went online. I literally worked from anywhere: the bedroom, the garage, my car. And then I came back into the room with my Mom.

Month by month, sometimes day by day, she is slipping away. I watched my Mom with her mother, as Grandma shifted into dimentia. Grandma Eulia used to keep a daily diary. She wrote a good paragraph each day. And then, there would be the cryptic entry, like, “Too many children around my legs.” She had no children who visited her. She had no visitors, except her daughters and grandpa. Slowly, those informative paragraphs all turned to sentence fragments, into more cryptic nonesence, into no record at all. When grandpa fell and broke his arm, his daughters quickly assembled to have grandma put into nursing care. Grandpa was grumpy about it because he was taking care of her. He loved her. He didn’t want to be without her. But he knew.

And in that brightly lit place of sensory stimulation and good care, she swiftly slid into full dementia. With a smile on her face, and a chuckle in her throat. She didn’t know any of us, but my Mom would play the piano and grandma would sing the hymns of her life. She wheeled herself to the exits because she had bible school to go to. She never knew us again.

I watched my Mom lose her mother. I saw the pain in not being known. I watched as Mom became not a daughter but a nice woman who visited, and grandma was glad to see. My mother will say that she grieved the loss of her mother long before the death of her mother.

Now it is my turn.

She, too, keeps a smile on her face and chuckle in her throat. We are able to keep her in her home, her wishes, because one of us visits daily, and my niece is her caregiver. We have cameras everywhere, and we check many times a day. Most often, we find her sitting in her recliner, laughing at PBS kids. During an upcoming vote, we talked about how she wanted to vote. Explained both sides. Then she looked at me and said, “You seem to know me well. How do you think I would vote?” I do know my mother well. I’ve paid attention. So I told her exactly how she would vote and why. She was satisfied with that answer and we sent the vote in. My Mom can’t recall many things, but she knows her beloved people. I have not yet lost my Mom, and I am so busy keeping up with her changes that I don’t have time to look back. New Normal is not just the mantra of the pandemic, it is the mantra of Mom’s life.

With tender love,

Amy

Land

I’m spending two weeks with my delightful mother, during this pandemic. It is my turn. My sister who lives near by, and my brother who is also close, and our niece who provides afternoon care have been here every day (someone is) to check in. Mom is independent and living in her home. She does a marvelous job of taking good care of herself, and being of good cheer. But her memory is experiencing slippage. The daily isolation is a concern. So, it is my turn. I’m grateful for this opportunity.

Alfie and I needed to walk. The nice thing about living in our town, are the sidewalks and lovely neighborhoods with interesting 100 year old homes.

But on the farm, there are no sidewalks. Mom and Dad (who died in 2004) built their retirement house on the west side of their farm. Alfie and I took off today to walk through the fields. Corn fields. The ground is littered with wonderful composting stalks and cobs. The land is soft but not muddy. It is strong and lush and well loved.

As I walked eastward I saw the fullness of the land. My Dad loved his land. He could not make a living off our little farm, but he loved it. He loved the history of indigenous peoples who left their arrowheads. He loved the glaciers that moved clay, dark earth, and sand from other places and depositing the varied earth right to his feet. Dad dreamed of this land providing for his family.

This land holds family dreams, family tears, personal confessions, a lot of swearing, and many secrets. They also will compost down into the deep layers of memory and dirt.

For over 40 years a beloved farming family have tilled, planted, and harvested from this land. I could feel their care as I walked. I could feel the utter beginning of the world, right here, in the corn rows I walked.

Alfie has been off leash for a week, and it shows. He bounds along as if he were the original farm dog, herding air and smells.

When I got back to Mom’s house, she was waiting with a lovely cup of chocolate milk for each of us.

Gratefully,

Amy

Pandemic

In traditional Chinese medicine, each of the 5 organ systems governs different emotions. Lungs govern grief.

What can we learn from Covid19, that impacts the lungs, now sweeping the entire globe?

That the whole world is grieving.

We are grieving clean air.

We are grieving isolation and independence that separates us, long before this spring.

We are grieving the deteriorating civil conversation space.

We are grieving that there is no American Dream.

We are grieving that we have bought into obstacles that have kept us from healing.

We are grieving that we believe all is fair.

We are grieving.

The whole world is grieving.

The only way through grief is to go through grief.

This is how it is showing up in me. When I go into my own wisdom and ask “What is the state of things?” I immediately get a picture of topsoil and what is underneath. Like a cutaway, side image. I’ve been tracking this for months now for other reasons.

What I have seen is a thin topsoil of FINE. I’m fine. Fine. Really, I’m fine. It doesn’t take much to trigger me into not fine, to set me off into a myriad of other, darker, sharper emotions.

Then along the way, I noticed that the topsoil was thickening. I really was fine. I was less activated into those deeper emotions of anger, despair, whatever. One time, what I saw was a thick topsoil of fineness. It was true fineness. But do you know what was underneath that? Lava. Roiling boiling red hot lava. Goodness me.

In these times. The topsoil is a little less thick in me. My fine is true but I have to take stock of how it needs tending. Like a garden. Like a flowerbed. Gotta pay attention to the weeds that grow rooted in the lava flow. Pluck them out. I then need to set aside time to tend to the lava flow. I remember seeing one time, a photo from a friend who honeymooned in Hawaii, a lava flow that came down the volcano right into the ocean. That is what I’m trying to tend to. To provide a place for it to flow. It will lose steam. It will flow to an energetic place that releases the heat. But it must be tended to, understood, and let go.

May your topsoil be fine. Finer tomorrow than today. Even finer by the end of April. May you adapt with strength and keen understanding. May you not be swayed by the fear of others. May you stand in your own fineness, which will encourage others to stand in their fineness. Or maybe just even find their fineness.

I am still working. Still listening. Still seeing clients. I would love to be busy with you all. Schedule so you can be heard. Set an appointment so we can tend to the lava and the thickening of the topsoil of fine.

With you,

Amy

Marcescence

I’m passing along a bit of earthy nature science that has spiritual applications (like most things).

The word marcescence refers to those persistent leaves that cling to a tree after all the other leaves have fallen. A tree in the fall will close off its veins that flow the sap, which causes the leaves to let go and become humus for the roots and forest floor. Marcescence happens mostly in juvenile trees, and all leaves dropping as the tree matures.

Do you see it?

We are covered with lessons of letting go, growing up, shifting and rising. And it is true. If we are not doing these things, we are dying. It is growth or death-by-stagnation, baby.

But have you been doing it? The work, as they say? It is a rough go of it, to let go and grow up. No matter our age. We can implement all of our mindfulness, all of our calm, all of our love, all of our grown-ass ways….and still be brought to our knees in pettiness, fear, ugly humanness.

But have no fear. It is merely marcescence. Even as we stand tall in our own storms some of our past clings. It clings tight. Our juvenile state may not just be a Chronos reference to our teen years, but the state of the particular issue or crisis we are facing.

Divorce, death, loss, financial hardship, family dynamics……whatever is tearing at your heart and ripping your calm to shreds. There surely must be a juvenile stage, where we stomp around, pout, blame all others….and as we work through those initial stages we hopefully will right ourselves with my two favorite questions for hard times:

1. How do I want to show up?

2. What do I want this story to say when it is all done?

With these two questions (and many others, but these are potent questions, to begin with) we move out of the juvenile stage of the crisis and into young adult stage and then on into a more mature stance. It is just a way of saying that we grow up through what we are facing. And even toward the more mature phase, we may still cling tightly to a particular complaint that is embedded deeply in our identity and we can’t let go. Those little leaves hang on as if there is still life. But they are dead. Let go.

Let go and apologize

Let go and forgive

Let go and realize you’re not the center anymore

Let go and turn your gaze to what awaits you

Let go and allow all that you have wept, learned, known, experienced compost your roots

And then, the little nubs of something new can emerge.

With you,

Amy

Panic Attacks

My first panic attack was before we had language for panic attacks. I was driving in the rain, a car load of kids, husband, luggage, food, and a tandem bike strapped on top of a little VW Rabbit. Everything was fine. But as I drove I KNEW that we were about to lose all control and be killed. I knew it. Knew. It. I nearly made it so, from knowing it. A rational passenger talked me down enough to pull over. I didn’t know that was an option.Panic is a blind, narrow, liar with no options. Years later, with language and a name, I understood this to be a panic attack.

Once I had that reference point, a flood of memories from my whole life rushed into the stadium to watch that punk band called Panic Attack. So much made sense. Having a name for it helps in the management of them.

I don’t have them frequently. Maybe one every couple of years. Now I know what is happening, and I can breathe, center, and live through it. Sort of like hot flashes in menopause. Really. My rational mind is still active during a panic attack, often cowering in the far corner, and I have to push it to the front row so it can be heard.

Last night, I had a panic attack. There I was, in my comfy cozy bed. My little dog, Alfie, was snuggled in and all was well. I am able to fall asleep easily, almost every night. But last night, I began to churn with a current situation, and the churning got thicker and thicker, layer upon layer of thoughts and worries and a convincing that I was doomed. I tried to pray but the thoughts were like a layered onslaught and my prayers became part of the garbled mixture. My physiology began to match my mental turmoil; heart racing, breath marathoning. Alfie stood up, looked at me from over his shoulder, and moved to the far side of the bed.

That was enough for me to come up for air. It was just a sec, but I gulped enough realism in that breath that I thought “I must be putting off some awful vibes for Alfie to move.” My own being threw me a life preserver, and I had a second thought, “I’m having a panic attack.”

With mind, heart, breath roiling still, I began to focus on my breath. In and out. Focus on my nose. My Buddhist mentor’s words were with me, and I kept my focus on my nose, right where the air goes in and then out. As I focused on the breath, I felt like I was covered in thick, sticky mud, trying to wash myself free, while still in the middle of the mud pit.

And slowly, I felt it dissolve. And I fell asleep.

Upon waking, the issues are still present, but the panic is not.

The action of panic is real. But the threat the panic induces is not. I am not doomed. I am not drowning in layers of what ifs. I’m not. There are lots of what ifs, but I’m not drowning.

I am fine. All will be well. All is well. And Alfie came back. I had enough presence of heart to know he was simply being self protective from what was pouring out of me. I don’t blame him. I felt it inside.

A panic attack is a real thing. But panic is a blind, narrow, no option liar.

Breathing with you,

Amy

Unearthing our Mosaics

2200 year old mosaic

I love history. Decades ago, I read a book by James MIchener called The Source. Since then, I have loved the image and metaphor of an archeological dig as it pertains to our personal and spiritual growth.

There is something about taking off a layer of illusion and false self as we get closer to our true self. You know, that self that was touched by the Divine at the moment of our birth. That true self that carries our DNA as we were created to be from our soul’s beginning.

As we grow and come into our adulthood, we recognize so much, so many layers that have been shoveled onto us by culture, time, family dynamics, self perception, trauma, misunderstandings, expectations. We are loaded with it. All of us. Yes, some worse than others. But we all would benefit from our own archeological dig.

So we begin by telling our story. OUR story. Not the perpetrator’s story. Not our parents’ story. Not our 3rd grade teacher’s story. OUR own story. We tell it. We get to know every corner. We take a finely crafted brush and slowly, achingly, attend to each grain of the story, each clump. Only when we fully own the site (our selves) can we start looking at the clumps. Our clumps, other’s clumps. We begin to brush and brush away the debri and see that something bigger has been going on here. We unearth houses that have been submerged for 2 millennia. We unearth powerstructures and puppies that were buried. We unearth art and belief systems we didn’t even see because it was covered or just such a part of who we are that we couldn’t differentiate.

We work our way through our layers of silt and dirt, muck and dust, dirt and broken shards. The closer we get, the more exhausted we get of our own story. We might give up, convinced we’ve seen it all.

But keep going.

For years.

The dig referenced at the top of the post began in 2007. 12 years long. They have uncovered a city. Bit by bit, clump by clump, brush stroke by careful brush stroke.

Yes, it takes a long time. Years. Decades.

We get better at it. We don’t have to get all the way down to our mosaics to reap the benefit of self discovery, compassion, forgiveness, and personal strength. We reap the benefits of our becoming with each difficult conversation, task, decision. We note that we are not who we once were. We note that we are more skilled in knowing our own landscapes. We notice that we have grown up while we’ve been growing into.

And then we discover our beauty. A beauty that is spread out for the whole world to see. We hear the gasps of amazement when we move through struggle with calm clarity and truthful tenacity.

We are works of art. We are a belief system. We are a mosaic of colored pottery that can withstand the pressure of the whole earth on top of us until we come up to breath once again. And then we work on our preservation, just like a priceless vase, a priceless painting, a priceless story.

You are priceless.

Even now. Before the dig.

Even now. As you dig.

Even now. As you discover you peaking out at you from under the last vestiges of cover.

To that, I smile.

Peace and Love,

Amy

Whispers behind your backs

This morning at the coffee shop, I heard two customers whisper about the service, “They are a bit disorganized.” I was aware that the beloved baristas in question have been working at this location for years. It occurred to me, how is it that we can perpetuate our clumsy less-than-best selves for so long? How exhausting is it to repeatedly repeat what we have to then apologize for? I truly love these two baristas. I’ve put a lot of hours on these stools and high top tables. I’ve witnessed a great deal of repeat apologetic performances.

Let’s move off from these baristas. A far more interesting question is, “What do you keep apologizing for in your own life, on repeat?” And WHY?????

My two favorite questions are about showing up and your end story. From those we backtrack to today. What are you doing TODAY that delays, derails, destroys how you show up and what your end story will be?

There is no victimhood. You are capable of choosing a different way of being. Your circumstances may feel restrictive, limiting, monumental. As long as you are putting the blame for your apology-riddled life onto someone or something else….you will not grow. You will not.

Now, I’m not being mean spirited here, nor am I ignorant of the vileness of the world that gets heaped upon people. But as long as we think our woes are someone else’s obligation to fix….we.will.not.grow.

And we’ll keep apologizing.

I love to give a good apology. It is a gift from the Creative to recognize when I’ve made a mistake and to then wholeheartedly apologize. Not the mealy mouthed “If I offended you” apology. No, a full on apology of “I am so sorry I did/said this thing.”

But I’m not talking about that kind of apology here.

I’m talking about apologizing for your basic existence on repeat.

I’m sorry for being disorganized (when you are always disorganized)

I’m sorry for being late (when you’re always late)

I’m sorry for forgetting your order (when you’re always forgetting)

I’m sorry for leaving off that detail (When you’re always leaving of this or that detail)

I’m sorry for saying stupid things (When……)

I’m sorry for letting you down

I’m sorry for not showing up

I’m sorry I didn’t notice

I’m sorry for…..

It is exhausting to keep being sorry, again and again and again.

With courage, we’ll listen to the whispers behind your back. What is being said about you? What can people not say to your face? What do you need to hear for your own good?

Let’s funnel that energy use into figuring out WHY you keep repeating these things. Is it insecurity? Is it lack of self esteem? Is it that you’re in the wrong job? Is it because you need further education? Is it because you’ve not been taught a different way? What is it? Because it is something.

It is something.

We will figure that out, and then we’ll practice new ways. We’ll practice things to say instead. We’ll practice becoming.

You’ll change the whispers behind your back. You’ll begin to whisper in front of your heart. Whispers that say,

“I am good.”

“I am growing.”

“I am not a mistake.”

“I am seeing clearly.”

“I am making progress.”

“I made a mistake and then I corrected it.”

“I am loved by me.”

With love,

Amy

Backpack and Bracelets

In June 2017, I and a couple friends, walked a portion of the Camino de Santiago in Spain. It is a pilgrim path a thousand years old. We walked the last 100km. The road took us through ancient villages, past toothless Galician farmers, into yards turned into cafes. It was beauty and it was brutal.

A pilgrim….perragrina….takes everything in her backpack. There are fancy services that will take your packs to the next stop for you. But mostly, you carry it on your back. For a soft and fluffy middle aged woman, cinching that belly strap tight is an instantaneous engagement with ego. But you must strap in tight or the pack will rub raw the body of the pilgrim.

My pack became my best friend.

On one day, we had a long walk. We got distracted while walking through the ONLY town we would see that day and did not stop to pee or drink water. By the end of the day, I no longer had to pee because my body needed my own hydration.

I recall one stop. 2 fellow pilgrims came at us from the direction we were headed and said there was a rest stop just up ahead. Water. Hang in there, they said. I slung my pack back onto my body. I was hot and sweaty. But this time, when I cinched in, the pack conformed to my back. Like a hug.

Like a hug. I felt wrapped in purpose and ability. I walked, near the end of my physical rope. But then I kept finding more rope. The rest stop and water promised to us, was a far piece. But I arrived upright, still walking. I took my pack off and felt the lift, the lightness, and felt oddly off balance to be relieved of its presence. The next morning, It hugged me tight and off we went.

In these days, I’m not preparing for the pilgrimage again. I would like to do another portion, for sure. And likely will. But I find that I’ve got another source of that “hug” on my body. I just noticed it today. I’ve been wearing bracelets made from mini gems: lapis, jade, rose quartz and other things. Beautiful colors. I wear them everyday on my right wrist.

Today, it felt like a hug. Like an anchor. Like a still point that says, “We are here with you. You are centered. You are able.”

How lovely.

I know that this peace comes from within, and not from backpacks, bracelets or anything else. But it helps to have a symbol that reminds. Reminds me that I can do it. I can do this hard thing. And I am held while doing it.

Find your thing. A rock, a feather, a song, a dance. Embrace it and allow it to embrace you so that you can go the next step, discovering that you are still upright and walking.

With Love,

Amy

Your worst nightmare

What is it that you must face, you know deep in your gut, you’ve been hiding from, you want to run screaming in the other direction?

Come on in. It is time to face the monster. It is time to breathe into the reality that it will be better when you’ve looked into it’s yellow eyes and gaping maw and see that your fear has been covering up the fact that you are already strong enough to face it, heal it, move on into a new future.

I will hold your hand. I will tell you your truth. I will push you out the door of your own resistance.

I’m ready when you are.

With Love,

Amy