Remembering Summer
Ah, summer….when the days are long and stretched out in light and heat and possibilities. For many of us, summer was the best thing about being a kid. There was no school, you could play all day, and go out again after dinner because it was still light out. Summer offered an escape where you could disappear into a book, or the swimming pool, or a favorite hiding place, and just be with your own imagination for a while.
Often, thinking about our childhood summers can spark a dream, or remind us of something we’ve forgotten we loved.
I grew up on Long Island, east of New York City, in a suburban wonderland of green lawns and good schools, and a mix of Jewish and Catholic families. Summer was weekly visits to the library, and staying up late with Beezus and Ramona, and Encyclopedia Brown. Summer was lying on the sweet, grassy slope in our front yard, imagining shapes in the clouds. Summer was playing kickball with the neighbor kids in the school yard across the street until dark. I was the youngest, and always had to leave before the game was over, called home by my mother flashing the front porch light on and off.
Summer was car trips to Washington, DC, and the Pennsylvania Amish country, with my parents taking turns behind the wheel, and me, in the backseat, reading the map. Summer was swimming in a lake in upstate New York, and spending a week in Atlantic City with my Philadelphia cousins. We always stayed at a Holiday Inn, because kids were free, and they had a swimming pool.
Summer was a Chocolate Eclair Bar from the Good Humor truck, and peaches so ripe that the sticky juice dripped down my face. Summer was standing in front of the window air conditioner in my grandparents’ apartment, sweating so much that the backs of my legs stuck to the plastic covers on their sofa.
Summer was blowing wishes on dandelions, and mowing patterns in the lawn with my father’s push mower. Summer was playing TV tag, and Red Light, Green Light, and climbing across the monkey bars, not afraid to let go of one rung to reach the other.
Summer was doing hiney-boppers in Ilene Miller’s above ground pool, and tumble tucking off the low diving board at the Plainview pool. Summer was sleepover parties with Fran and Karen, and hours of riding our bikes on the blacktop of the schoolyard, pretending we were teenagers, driving to our own apartments.
Summer was catching fireflies in a jar, grilling Hebrew National hot dogs in the backyard, and jumping off of my father’s shoulders into the breaking waves at Jones Beach. Summer was being stuck in traffic coming home, me in the back seat of our station wagon, happily distracted by the salty-sweet smell of the ocean on my arms.
~ ~ ~
What do you remember about summer? What were your favorite things to do? Where did you hang out? Who were your best friends?
Do you still enjoy any of your childhood summer favorites? Does remembering something about your childhood summers spark something you’d like to be or do in your life now?
I’d love to hear your summer memories.
[ssba]In Awe of the Bears
I hope your summer is off to a light and easy, relaxing start. Here on the northern California coast, the mornings are cool with blue skies, and the afternoons are sunny and breezy, sometimes full on windy. But it hasn’t stop me from riding. Last Sunday I parked at the clinic and rode the bike trail through town to the marsh, then continued along the coastal trail. The wind was pretty strong along the water, especially on the way back, but I was singing as I pedaled, “I’m riding in the breeze, past the swaying trees, and it’s eeeeease–y on my eeeee-bike.” And I wasn’t even in my highest pedal assist gear.
I am so loving my volunteer gig, stewarding in the Redwood trees for two hours, once a week. I get to the Sequoia Park Zoo a few minutes before it opens at ten, so that, even after signing in and getting my Sky Walk Steward gear, I have at least fifteen minutes alone in the trees before any visitors show up.
I walk past the flamingos and the bear habitat, turn the corner as I pass the donkeys in the Barnyard, then take my time on the ascent ramp, a zig zagging 360 foot walkway, which is almost as tall as one of the oldest redwoods in the world. I set my things on a bench on the Launch Platform thirty five feet above the forest floor and just breathe. Then I walk the quarter mile loop across the walkways and the rope bridges, feeling the change in the air, listening to the birds without needing to know their names, welcoming myself to the canopy.
Standing next to a giant redwood is magic in itself. Standing as high as 100 feet up in the redwood canopy is something even more mystical. How it sounds, how it smells, how it feels to literally be a part of the energy exchange between the branches is palpable. After my two hour shift, I feel like my heart has been bathed and massaged.
Last week during my shift, so many visitors were asking about the bears. We have three at the zoo, a brown one, a black one and a tan one, all Black Bears, all not able to survive in the wild. Their habitat is below the Sky Walk, which provides an amazing viewing platform to watch these wild creatures.
At 10:15, with the bears secured in their indoor enclosures, the keepers hide food all around their outdoor habitat. They toss heads of lettuce, bok choy, and apples on the ground, tuck carrot chunks under logs and into the holes of large plastic toys, all so that the bears can simulate their natural foraging behaviors. And then the bears are let out into the habitat to find and retrieve the various treats.
After they eat, two keepers take turns running on the outside of the fence while Ishŭng, the black colored bear, runs alongside.
Ishŭng was the first Black Bear to be placed in the care of the Sequoia Park Zoo. She was extremely overweight and out of shape when she arrived, but with her diet and exercise program, she’s now much healthier. But because Ishŭng is used to people, she cannot be released to the wild.
Tule was only a few weeks old when he was found, underweight and with many health concerns, including mange on his brown coat. He was rehabilitated at Lake Tahoe Wildlife Care before being placed at the zoo because his coat is not likely to regrow, so he can’t tolerate cold winters in the wild.
Nabu, the newest bear at the zoo, is golden colored. He arrived in June, 2025, also with coat issues and unable to survive in the wild. He stays in a separate habitat, within sight and smell of Ishŭng and Tule, as he acclimates and they get to know each other. The hope is that, in time, all three bears will be able to share the same spaces.
It is mesmerizing to watch the bears move around in their world. They smell, they pace, they climb the trees. Sometimes they just sit and play with a stick. And sometimes Ishŭng and Tule will chase each other, then stand on their back legs and wrestle. And then they go their separate ways.
I’ve talked with several visitors about the ethics of zoos. While it might be hard to see animals in captivity, ethically-run zoos provide a direct way for people to know and understand animals they might only see in books or TV. The mission of the Sequoia Park Zoo is to “inspire conservation of the natural world by instilling wonder, respect, and passion for wildlife and wild places.” And that’s a mission I can stand behind. And above. In the trees.
From my bear-y happy heart to yours,
The Magic of Hugging
I am a hugger. I’ll wrap both of my arms around you and hold us together for several moments in an enveloping embrace so that our hearts have a chance to connect. Even if we’ve just met. And before I let you go, I’ll give you a little squeeze, like an exclamation point at the end of a very important sentence.
I especially love to hug women who have a few extra pounds, like me, because it’s soft on soft, like hugging my mom. My friend Deborah gives the best soft on soft hugs that linger, followed by a kiss on my cheek and “Love you, sweetie.” It melts me and fills me every time.
When I first moved here, I asked Pam if I could give her a hug. She said yes, but looked very uncomfortable afterwards. So I asked if she was OK, and she said, “Oh yes, I liked it. I’m just not used to it.”
I guess there are a lot of people who aren’t huggers. Or they do a half hug with just one arm and a slight lean in to keep some distance between bodies. For me, there is nothing better than the energetic connection that a close hug can create between two people.
This past weekend I had four social activities. I even knew some people at each event. There were a few handshakes and nice to see you’s, but I only shared three hugs. The morning after all of the socializing, I felt a hollowness in my chest. I thought about the people I love, and the people who love me. I thought about the work I’m doing with my Heart Sparks women. It all helped lift my heart, but I realized that what I really needed was a good hug.
Studies prove that hugging lowers your blood pressure, lifts your mood, and releases those feel good chemicals. And the longer the hug, the greater the benefits.
Virginia Satir, a well-know author and family therapist, said that we need four hugs a day for survival, eight hugs a day for maintenance, and twelve hugs a day for growth.
Thank God for Tillie, or I’d be way under my quota. Still, I was needing a good hug that morning, and Pam wasn’t home to ask for one. Then I thought of my friend Kim, who loves to hug trees.
I had never hugged a tree before. So Tillie and I went down into the lower yard where I often sit at the base of the big mother Redwood tree. This time, I walked up to the tree and stood where I usually sit. I checked for spiders and bugs, then spread my arms as wide as wings, and still, I could barely reach around a quarter of the massive trunk. (Pam took this photo in a re-enactment the next day.)
I pressed my torso against the ridges of the thick bark and I breathed. I found a wide indentation to rest my left cheek, and I pressed my sternum against the tree and relaxed into it. I could feel the energy of the tree meeting my heart. I cried as I pressed my palms into the rough bark, feeling a filling up and a calming come over me.
It wasn’t soft and squishy like a person’s hug, but the connection was real. And strong. And it satisfied my need for a good, loving hug. And now I know that the mother tree is right there, anytime I need a hug.
When was the last time you hugged a tree? And how often do you hug your loved ones? I’d love to hear your stories. And if you, like me, have never had the experience of hugging a tree, I highly recommend it.
From my happy hugging heart to yours,
These Regal Redwoods
I’ve been studying my Redwood Sky Walk Steward notes to learn more about the redwood trees. To help me retain the information, I thought I’d share some interesting facts about these magnificent trees with you.
1. A redwood’s shaggy bark can be up to a foot thick. It deters fire and insect damage and protects the cambium, the inner living layer of the tree.
2. The oldest trees in Sequoia Park are 600-800 years old. The oldest known coast redwood dates to 480 BCE.
3. Redwoods are social trees, growing in large groups called groves. Redwoods have shallow roots that are rarely more than six feet deep. Roots from adjacent trees fuse together, creating a connected “wood wide web” that helps neighbor trees share resources.
4. The largest redwoods measure nearly 30 feet in diameter at their base. Although ancient redwoods can be more than 350 feet tall, the average canopy height of the trees in Sequoia Park is around 250 feet.
5. Those knobby growths on the trees are burls. Burls are like scar tissue, growing where a tree was heavily damaged. While many species of trees can form burls, redwood burls are the largest ever known. One massive burl discovered in 1977, just 30 miles north of Sequoia Park, weighed about 432 tons. That’s the equivalent of nearly 90 elephants!
6. The lower half of the redwood tree is focused on growth. The needles spread out like fingers to catch the sunlight. The needles at the top of the tree grow upward and closer together to catch the moisture from the fog.
7. Secondary trunks called reiterations can emerge from the main trunk or on branches, acting like trees themselves. On ancient redwoods, reiterations may be as big as mature trees – and even have their own reiterations!
One thing that’s not in the training manual is how it feels to stand among these giant trees, high above the forest floor. A calm washes over you. You notice how quiet it is. You feel somehow connected to the magnificent forest around you.
I remember meeting a man in Redwood Park last year. He was from the midwest and had only seen redwoods on television. He said they called to him, told him to slow down, enjoy life more. And I believed him.
This past week on my first Redwood Sky Walk Steward shift, my intention wasn’t to be able to answer a lot of questions, but to simply share the awe and magic of being in the trees. And almost every person I asked said it was wonderful.
One woman, after walking the loop through the trees with her friend, said she could feel something opening in her body. She told me she has cancer, and her friend thought coming here would be good for her.
I asked where in her body, and she put her hand on her chest and said, “My lungs.” I reminded her that trees help us breathe, and I shared that, after living here for two years, I no longer use an inhaler. I encouraged her to find a big redwood to hug. And then we hugged each other. Twice. She said she really could feel the energy of the trees, and that she could feel my energy, too. We both acknowledged the serendipity of being there at the same time. And then we hugged a third time.
There is so much we are learning about trees, so much more we don’t know. And maybe we don’t have to know, as long as we’re willing to tune in and simply listen.
From my redwood-loving heart to yours,
The Beauty of Singing
There are so many stories and images all around us, of pain, suffering, devastation, death, and worse. I thought you might appreciate a reprieve from all of that with a dose of something that feels good. I hope it brings you a bit of peace, calm, and maybe even a little hope.
I attended a gathering last weekend that was advertised as a Community Singing for Solidarity, Resistance and Love. There were almost 100 people in the local Playhouse Theater, sitting in the audience seats, in chairs on the floor, and on the stage.
We started with some fun vocal warm-up exercises, playing with our voices and loosening our bodies. Then we stood in a ring of concentric circles on the main floor, closed our eyes, and we each made song sounds, listening to and singing with the sounds around us.
I heard high notes and low notes, lines of melody and rhythmic monotones. I started singing a single note on the offbeat, which morphed into two notes and a pattern that I kept repeating. I was aware that I couldn’t hold a note for very long, but I just kept breathing and listening and singing, breathing and listening and singing.
The woman on my left had the most beautiful, clear, strong voice, and I found myself singing with her, in harmonic counterpoint, almost. The sounds around us shifted and then, like the leader had predicted, all of us in the room were toning together in one harmonious sound.
OH!
To be in a room with so much positive energy, and love. And to feel that I was truly a part of such an amazing whole.
We all know that singing is beneficial to our health and well-being. Singing improves our breathing and lung capacity, reduces stress, and stimulates new neuron-pathways in our brain. Singing with others amplifies these benefits, and also provides a wonderful way to connect with others.
The organizers of the event talked about the Singing Resistance in Minneapolis, that singing at the protests made people feel safe. They said the movement is growing and that this gathering was the beginning of a local group.
And so we learned the melody and harmonies of three resistance/solidarity songs with the word LOVE in them, that the group plans to sing at the next protest. I won’t be at the protest, but I did sign up to attend the next singing gathering.
Perhaps there’s a Singing (Resistance) Group in your community that is calling your voice.
Click this link to feel and hear the love. I’m at the very beginning of the video.
From my song-filled heart to yours,
Happy Heart Month
Happy heart month. I hope that, in the midst of everything happening in our country, you are finding ways to stay heart-centered, resilient, empowered. And that you are breathing.
Now, more than ever, we need to focus on the people, places, and activities that make us feel safe, grounded, joyful, alive. We need to show up with our unique gifts, and concentrate our energies on kindness, compassion, and love. The more love we can send to ourselves, our friends, our families, and communities, the more love reverberates in the bigger world.
Here on the north coast of California, it is officially winter. It’s been raining the last four days, with daytime temperatures warming to about 45°.
When I left Phoenix last January, I spent three months at the beach in Morro Bay before following my deepest intuition to come here to Arcata in April, not sure, yet having a deep knowing that this was my new home. I had planned to return to Phoenix in November to pack up and sell the family house.
Instead, I have stayed here to experience what winter on the coast is like. Friends said it would be cold and wet, that it rained a lot. I imagined huge downpours like the desert monsoons that can flood the streets in a matter of minutes. But mostly, the rain here is a light but steady drizzle, which doesn’t keep Tillie and me from our daily walking.My raincoat keeps me dry, Tillie doesn’t mind getting wet, and she loves getting towel dried when we get home. And on the days that it does rain harder, I’m so grateful that we don’t have to be out in it, and that my cottage is perfectly cozy and warm. Yes, there is flooding, and rock slides, and even snow around the county, but the redwoods and I really love all of the moisture.
A dear friend from Morro Bay came to visit for a few days last month. It was fun to share some favorite spots and meals, and explore some new places, too. Our conversations were deep and rich, about everything from our spiritual beliefs and first girlfriends to my writing life and wearing a ring on your “wedding finger” even if you’re single.
All of that fun and talking prompted a clear phlegmy cough that turned into me losing my voice. So I rested, postponed some big things, and surrendered to the silence. I let go of all of the commitments on my plate, and just listened in. It was strange to not feel any pressure to hurry up and heal, or worry about what I wasn’t doing or planning to get done. I just let it all go.
I Doordashed some wonton soup and groceries, texted friends, and appreciated Marika’s recommendation to get some Mucinex to bring up the phlegm. As I started to feel better, I could also feel that I’ve turned some kind of corner. I could truly feel how full and rich my life is. I have friends, here and all over, favorite places to walk, and still, so many places to explore. I can see how I have been focusing my intentions these last nine months on settling in, meeting people, connecting with things familiar, like kirtan and Heart Sparks and riding my bike. And that now, not even a year later, I am home, completely and fully.
I used to choose a word every year that clearly defined my intention, so I could hold up any choice to the word, like a litmus test, to see if it supported how I wanted to be and feel. My word this year is BEYOND. Beyond what I know, beyond what I’ve done, beyond my limiting beliefs, beyond how I’ve done things in the past, beyond what I could ever imagine.
And so I am showing up for all kinds of new experiences and activities. I bought an e-bike rack for my car and drove to a park to begin my ride, but now I have to wait for warmer, drier weather to ride further. Next week I’m going to check out a Silver Sneakers class with a friend, and the following week we’re taking a Pickleball lesson together. I signed up for a cool, one day online workshop to discover the arc of my story by creating a Zine. And I’m teaching a new class for OLLI this month called Exploring Slow Stitching, that invites students to relax and create without an end product in mind.
I’ve also been creating my own slow stitch pieces using fabric remnants, trims and some of my mother’s jewelry. If you’re in the Phoenix area, check out the TOWARD2050 project at the Desert Botanical Gardens. I created four panels for the installation.
And this Sunday I am gathering four women for the first in-person, 7 week Heart Sparks Circle since 2012. I’ve led the circle many times since then via Zoom, but, oh, to sit in a circle, together, is going to be so much magic. Together, we’re going to explore how we can best show up for ourselves and others, with more presence and joy and love.
It’s so easy to get lost in the chaos of the larger world. It can be just as easy to pause, and simply breathe, to slow down everything outside of you and breathe deep into where you are, right here, right now, in tune with the strong and steady beat of your heart.
May you continue to feel safe and grounded, so that you can lean into the joys of your life, and keep spreading the love. And if you need some support or guidance, let’s talk.
From my happy, healthy, joyful heart to yours,
PS My article about volunteering has been published in PBS’s online magazine, Next Avenue. Check it out.
[ssba]Be the Light. Spread the Light.
Happy December! This time of the year is all about the light. Chanukah is called the Festival of Lights, with eight nights of candle lighting to commemorate the miracle of the oil. Kwanzaa is celebrated by lighting seven candles to represent the seven principles. Houses and trees are decked in holiday lights. And Jesus was born under the light of the star of Bethlehem. Everywhere you look, there are candles and fires, beckoning us toward the light and the warmth.
But in nature, this is the darkest time of the year.
This offers us a beautiful invitation to go inward to tend our own light.
If we’re feeling confident, creative, appreciated, it’s pretty easy to tap into our own glowing goodness. We radiate love and compassion, for ourselves and others. And our shining light reflects back to other people, creating an even bigger light.
But what about when sadness, grief, frustration, even hopelessness, overwhelm us, and we feel no light.
Even if your light is not roaring in radiant flame, it is still burning. It may be just a tiny glow of an ember, but it is there, offering a spark of hope. It may be a faint flicker, but it is alight because you are alive.
And if you fan the flame with a single spoken gratitude, the smallest of thank you’s, I promise you, the light will spark. And the more you can focus on what tiny goodnesses there are, the more that light will grow.
And when your light grows, the light around you grows. And, as corny as it sounds, one day you’ll look up and notice you are no longer huddled in darkness. You are shining, radiating, basking in the richest, truest light that is all of us.
I invite you to take some quiet time and feel into what warms your heart, what helps you feel authentic and loved. When do you feel most connected to who you truly are?
How do you spark your own light?
How do you spark the light in others?
How do others spark the light in you?
I invite you to tell someone how they shine in your life. Maybe even brave up and ask them how you shine in theirs. We are all sources and reflectors of love and light, and the more we shine, the more our world shines.
May you find your light, embrace your light, and shine your light in the world.
And may we see each other’s light, and help each other shine.
May this season fill you and your world with love and light.
With big, big love and gratitude,
P.S.
Before you rush into the new year, I invite you to take some deep time to reflect on this past year. Look back on all that you have been, done, and become. Notice how you have shifted, expanded, and grown.
Where were you brave?
What was easy?
Who did you ask for help?
How did you surprise yourself?
How did you offer your support?
Where did you show up fully as yourself?
What was your biggest motivation?
Where did you get stuck?
How did you move forward?
Where did you make a difference?
What has been your deepest Why?
How will you celebrate yourself for all that you have lived this year?
I’d love to hear your answers.
[ssba]The Threshold Between Winter and Spring
It’a already March, and the first full day of Spring is just two weeks away. I’m usually full of inspiration and excitement this time of year, but today, I’m still feeling the subtleties of winter hibernation.
The Heart Sparks Rest and Renewal Retreat was everything I imagined and so much more. We laughed, we lounged, we shared, we made art, and each retreater fell a little more in love with herself.
The week before the retreat, it snowed in Sedona. The freeway was closed just north of the exit to Sedona, and more snow was forecasted for the retreat weekend. With all of the planning I had done, everything was now up in the air. Would the roads be closed on the way up? Would we get snowed in once we got there? Would I have to cancel the retreat and refund everyone’s money?
The day before the retreat, four of us decided to caravan in the morning, so that, if we did have to turn around, we’d all be together.
That night, all I could do was pray and let go, and wait until the morning to see if the roads were open.
And they were. It was a clear and easy two hour drive north to our cabin, and the snow-dusted red rocks were stunning. We all enjoyed the brisk, wintery chill in the air, the rushing water in Oak Creek, and the constant fire in the wood stove.
We danced, we walked, we shared delicious meals and deep conversations about music, intentions, and deviled eggs. We talked about thresholds, and what we were leaving and entering. And we played with fabric collage and slow stitching to create unique artworks that expressed our experiences and self-reflections.
We decided to close the circle a day early, ahead of another snow storm. One retreater, who has a truck with 4WD, and experience driving a school bus over snowy mountain passes, was happy to stay another night for a solo adventure. She sent pictures of six inches of snow on Sunday morning, and I was so glad to be seeing them from the comfort of my own bed.
It took a full week for me to return to regular life. I realized I had been holding the idea of the retreat for almost a year, planning, imagining, advertising, and then cancelling the beach retreat, and then doing it all over again for the Sedona retreat. I had outlined the schedule, arranged the meals, and handled all of the logistics, and I was doing fine holding it all. But the uncertainty of the weather took its toll on me.
Unlike one retreater, who had a huge aha about returning to playing her beloved viola, I did not have a flash of inspiration about what’s next.
Exactly the opposite.
My message was all about resting in the now. Resting, not as in tired, but as in leaning back, and basking in all that I have created, shared, and received. And not just at the retreat, but this whole past season, and year.
For the first few days post retreat, I was happy to stay at home, watching TV, walking in the neighborhood with Tillie, riding my bike, and just taking care of the essentials. I did a lot of journaling, processing and assimilating all of the gifts and revelations from the weekend. I finished my fabric collage, and lingered in bed with Tillie every morning.
That week I had planned to return to the wonderful new yoga studio that I found, where the teacher talked about the breathe, and alignment, and radiating our hearts, but I was still feeling the need to stay tucked in, close to home.
Instead of berating myself, or analyzing my resistance, I focused on where I WAS making changes: adding fruit to my morning bran flakes, making my own granola, preparing a week’s worth of veggies, adding standing poses to my morning stretching, reclining in my favorite chair in the backyard sun.
It’s now a week after the retreat and I am still moving slowly, but I am trusting that this pace is just as much a part of the Flow as when things are pinging and rushing and happening.
I truly feel like I am a different person, which is something I said often during the retreat. My whole body feels more spacious inside, and kind of floaty. I feel intensely connected to something bigger than myself that is truly guiding my steps, so that I don’t feel the need to control or force or rush anything.
At the same time, it is so easy for me to fall back into worrying about income and money and the future. If I’m not working, and I have no housemate, how can I continue to afford this lifestyle?
When that happens, I cry to release it, and then I redirect my heart to embracing all that already is. Sometimes I can even begin to imagine how else I might want to feel. I eventually let the worry go and come back to the joys of the present moment, but it’s an ongoing practice and conversation.
I remind myself that I have always lived in this syncopated flow of money, never really knowing where it was coming from, and trusting that there is always enough. I also realize that I’m ready for a more stable and consistent flow of money for more peace of mind.
On my walk with Tillie this morning, I gave myself permission to take a little more time off, to not push or rush forward, but to continue to bask in all of this until the first day of Spring. To lean in and connect with the joy, to luxuriate in this life I have created, even trust in some spending on myself, and linger in the ending of winter, feeling the feelings, and rejoicing in all that is right here.
As uncomfortable and unfamiliar as this all feels right now, I know I am standing at a brand new, wide open threshold, and that amazing things are right there, calling to me from the other side. And I know that the bigger I trust, the bigger the prize. The more uncomfortable I feel, the closer I am.
And the more I listen in, I really can hear the winking of new growth and spring-like excitement.
I am thrilled to offer the one-day Fabric Collage and Slow Stitching Workshop at my house on April 1st. It was such a powerful and engaging activity for my retreaters, that I want to share it with you. Details are below.
And I just found out that the cottage I’m renting this summer in Arcata, a cozy college beach town in Northern California, with the ocean, bays AND redwoods, will be available sooner than originally planned. BIG YAY!!!
So Tillie and I will be back at the BEACH at the beginning of May. Just thinking about it lifts my heart and makes me happy. (And, of course, it sparks that worried-about-money conversation all over again.)
Thinking about my birthday makes me happy, too. It’s March 20, the first day of Spring, and for the first time in forever, I would really like to receive some birthday cards. So if you’d like to fill my heart with delight, ask me for my address.
I shared this excerpt about thresholds from John O’Donahue’s book, To Bless the Space Between Us, with my retreaters. I invite you to consider what threshold you are now standing at, and how you would like to cross it.
“At any time you can ask yourself: At which threshold am I now standing? At this time in my life, what am I leaving? Where am I about to enter? What is preventing me from crossing my next threshold? What gift would enable me to do it?
A threshold is not a simple boundary; it is a frontier that divides two different territories, rhythms, and atmospheres. Indeed, it is a lovely testimony to the fullness and integrity of an experience, or a stage of life that it intensifies toward the end into a real frontier that cannot be crossed without the heart being passionately engaged and woken up.
At this threshold a great complexity of emotion comes alive: confusion, fear, excitement, sadness, hope. This is one of the reasons such vital crossings were always clothed in ritual.
It is wise in your own life to be able to recognize and acknowledge the key thresholds: to take your time; to feel all the varieties of presence that accrue there; to listen inward with complete attention until you hear the inner voice calling you forward. The time has come to cross.”
I hope your threshold from winter to spring is filled with ease and delight and beautiful awakenings. I’d love to hear about them.
[ssba]This Time of In-between
I hope your new year is off to a healthy and happy start. My January was filled with wellness exams, lunches with friends, Mac clients, romps at various neighborhood parks, a speeding ticket followed by online defensive driving school, new glasses, an unexpected new computer, and the official filing of the divorce papers.
Reading through the legal paperwork, I was surprised by all of the emotions I felt, and it took me a few days to move through the new layers of grief and loss. And for the first time I allowed myself to be angry that I had to choose to give up a lifestyle that I really loved.
It’s been so empowering to watch myself move through each emotion as it arises, noticing that I’m feeling all the feelings, but not lingering in any one emotion or memory. I’ve been able to tender myself, talk about my feelings, and give myself full on permission and safety to feel it all.
I’ve also been consciously and actively shifting my focus to welcoming more joy into my life. After the last few years enveloped in so much sadness and grief, it’s time.
I’ve been paying attention to the simple things that make me smile: the perfect, sweet-tart taste of the grapefruits from my trees, playing backgammon in the backyard with a friend on a sunny Sunday afternoon, hearing a friend’s special ring tone when the phone rings, cooking crab cakes in my new air fryer, and all things Tillie. I’m still riding my bike every day, too, and that makes my whole being happy.
And, on a wild whim, I signed up for a free, online stitching camp that offered five days of experimenting with fabric, paint, and stitching. I love looking at all kinds of textile arts, and this seemed like a great opportunity to see if stitching might be my new thing.
I had so much fun gathering my supplies: scrap fabrics that I picked up several years ago at the Latimer Quilt & Textile Center in Tillamook, Oregon, muslin squares from when I made prayer flags, colored yarns from a huge assortment gifted to me by a friend many years ago, a few coordinating spools of thread from my mom’s Danish cookies sewing box, and a few items from my stash in the garage studio for the mark making.
The first lesson was using paint and random tools to make marks on the muslin. After the pieces were dry, I didn’t like the paint colors I chose, so the next day, I re-did the mark making with different colors. The second day we cut up our painted fabrics into 3”x4” pieces and reconnected them to create new designs. And we were supposed to stitch the cut pieces together in the new layout.
My fingers were stiff, the fabric was flimsy, and I struggled to pin the pieces together. I considered gluing them, so that I could continue with the next steps, or borrowing a friend’s sewing machine, but I realized there was no joy in any of it. And so I chose not to continue.
At first I was disappointed that there were no sparks, since I’ve been fascinated with all kinds of textile art for so long. But now I know. It’s kind of like the welding class I took last year. I thought for sure I was going to become a metal artist, but no, the only sparks that day were on the metal.
And so, with all of the things I thought I might love to do now off the table, I am opening to the unknown, to wider possibilities, new energies, and unfathomable opportunities.
Meanwhile, I have gotten my hands back into glue and water, and it is truly my happy place. I had a vision of decoupaging hearts, so I ordered some plastic, fillable hearts, and have made two Full Hearts for friends using their words of the year. (If you’d like me to make you one, I am taking orders.)
I know this is a challenging time of in-between for a lot of people. Almost everyone I talk to seems to be, in one way or another, between what was, and the unknown future. Hobbies that we used to find engaging are no longer interesting, activities we once enjoyed seem like too big a hassle to organize, and we’re just not sure how to reconnect with the world, or ourselves.
It’s as if we’ve outgrown our before-lives, but we have no idea what we want next.
Instead of getting caught in the angst of those extremes, can you simply breathe yourself into this present moment? Because, in the present moment, it is OK to not know. It is OK to not want to do the things you did before. It is OK to take time to feel your way back to yourself.
This time of in-between can be an opportunity to slow down, to notice where you no longer want to expend and share your energies, and pay attention to things that are winking at you from the sidelines.
Give yourself time. Find ways to let go of needing to know, and enjoy the mystery. Be curious without expectations. Say yes to the things that take you to your soft edge. Trust that when you get to the end of all you know, you will fly.
[ssba]