Posted by on Dec 21, 2016 in abundance, awareness, breath | 0 comments

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As you may know, I am in the process of closing my Mac training business after 30 years of helping people love their Macs. I’m doing it for all of the right reasons and it feels good. I’m excited about whatever is next, and I know this is what I really want for myself.

 

Yet, this in-between time niggles me.

 

I used to spend a lot of my working time gathering content and publishing the weekly Mac Tips and sharing the Mac love on Facebook. Now, without that busy work, I twiddle my thumbs and wonder what I’m supposed to be doing with this time.

 

One day last week I even considered continuing to send out the weekly tips, because folks really do enjoy them. I thought about charging for the yearly subscription to make it worth my time. And then I caught myself. This is not where I want to grow my energy. This is no longer the relationship that fulfills me and shines a radiant, glowing future. I need to stick to the plan of phasing things out, so that I am open and available for what is next.

 

It’s like when you leave any relationship. The habit to call or text or connect is still fresh. You start to rationalize why you may want to stay together. You think, well, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Because without it, there’s a lot of uncomfortable open, empty space.

 

But this is where the light shines in. This is where new sparks and old dreams raise their voices and call you forward.

 

And so, on that day that I started to fall backwards into what I know, what’s comfortable even though it’s not what I really want, I asked myself, what new thing I could do instead, that would take me away from the computer screen.

 

It was 45° outside, but not raining, and I knew the best thing would be to move in my body. I put on my winter layers and grabbed my litter-picker-upper stick and bucket and a pair of rubber gloves to go over my regular ones nd headed out. It felt so good to breathe in the crispy air. My shoes left imprints in the frosted grass as I walked up to Lighthouse Road and scanned for trash. There were no snack wrappers or beer cans, just cigarette butts in the parking area.

 

Two county workers were buzz-sawing the bushes behind the whale watching platform, creating a wider viewing area for tourists. I worried that they had removed the cross I had seen tucked back there the other day. But the area had actually been cleared, the vase of navy blue silk flowers was now standing next to the cross, and I could read the carved word, Dad.

 

I walked back toward the Meditation Triangle Park, intending to sit and enjoy the view. The water was so calm, the sky was the bluest blue, full of fat white clouds. I spotted a piece of trash a few feet down the trail to the dunes. I hadn’t walked that trail yet, deterred by its steepness, but today I said yes.

 

After I plucked the paper, I realized I didn’t want to have to climb back up the trail with a full bucket, so I left it at the trailhead. It was also there in case something happened and Marika needed to find me.

 

The trail started out as dirt but soon I was walking in sand, soft, like powder, but packed from all of the rain, so it was like walking down steps. Steep steps that cut a three foot wide path between tree roots and pine tree branches, wheat-colored grasses and blackberry bramble. After about three hundred yards of stair-stepping down, the trail opened up to the crest of the dunes and it looked like it ended with a hundred foot drop.

I took some pictures, then walked to the edge and looked down, and there were the dunes, stretching north and south as far as I could see, the pond-sized puddles in the valley of the sand, the ridge of trees, the ocean beyond that, and the wide-open sky.

 

I walked down the steep slope of the sand and, when I looked back, I spotted the motor home and the lighthouse, tucked behind the trees. I took pictures in every direction to capture the enormity of the sand and the sky.

 

 

I walked across a flat section of sand, then down to the twenty-foot wide puddles. There were snack wrappers and plastic bottles, hair ties and broken glass, and I regretted not having my litter bucket with me. I heard the rumble of a faraway ATV, the steady moan of the foghorn and the rustle of my nylon coat sleeve as I walked. Birds chitted in the trees and the Coast Guard helicopter flew overhead. I couldn’t see the ocean, only sky and trees and sand, rising and sloping in all directions.

 

I turned toward the sun and planted me feet in the sand, finding my alignment, dropping my weight and my breath into the sand. I did some modified sun salutations, then folding down into a good, long, down dog. It took a few minutes to find a position where my hands didn’t shift in the sand. And I breathed into my body, my bones, my heart.

 

The climb back up the dunes was hard work. I felt the muscles in the tops of my thighs and my buttocks. I stopped several times to feel my pulse, catch my breath, and take in the view. And I was so aware that, with each step, I was saying yes to this next wave of goodness, of me bringing more of myself and my gifts to the world. I may not yet know what that looks like, but standing there, my heart pounding and the horizon oh, so wide, I knew that I was ready.

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