Showing Up

I’ve spent the majority of today in bed, inhaling Momastary.com, The Racial State, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream — chocolate therapy, thankyouverymuch — and salad. It’s allllllll about balance, I told him.

I’m slightly obsessed with Glennon Doyle Melton — I’m re-reading her book Carry On, Warrior even though I just finished it about a week ago. That’s what I’ve been doing this past year though: finishing a book and then immediately starting it again. Sometimes the first time around isn’t enough to learn even a fraction of what it is one needs to learn.

Glennon says some version of this (see, still haven’t really learned it all): Show up, be brave, be kind, do the next right thing for you, rest, repeat. So that’s what I’m doing. Brene Brown and Elizabeth Gilbert and Martha Beck and Rob Bell and Oprah all seem to be saying the same thing. I know because I’m reading and re-reading and listening hard — podcasts and super soul sessions are the same thing as reading, right? This day in age, no? I’m old, I’m learning. (I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.)

Last year, on this weekend, I watched fireworks in front of a cornfield and thought I knew things. I almost want to laugh out loud at that thought now, except I’m trying to be kinder to myself — a year: what a difference. All the things I got wrong, and hopefully a few I got right. I got a couple of the most important things right, that much I know.

I know because I’ve been very quiet. When I’m unsure now (which is often), I get still, I get quiet, immediately. Or as soon as possible. And I move through the next few minutes. Sometimes I take a large leap and move through the next few hours. That’s it; that’s all I’ll be doing for a while, and I’m so very good with that. (Good with it, not good at it — there’s a vital difference.)

I’ve made a thousand mistakes in this past year. I’ve said and done and been hurtful things. And I’ve been forgiven. I’ve been loved anyway.

Last summer, I learned that every cell in my body is actually made of glass and every cell can actually shatter. Those shattered glass cells can prick and poke and scratch and pierce every inch of your skin from the inside out. But over time, they melt and become heavy molten and although it feels far too heavy to carry on most days, you can, in fact, carry it. And eventually, ever so slowly, it drains out of you, and becomes less heavy.

As it drains, it takes away all the old and leaves wide open spaces for new. New feels as new is — uncomfortable and uncertain. But it isn’t the hot, heavy molten glass, and all the empty space is a bit airy, a bit light, and there’s plenty of room for the uncomfortable and the uncertain to hang out and just be.

That’s what I do now, mostly. I just be.

And I listen for myself in the stillness, so I can show up as myself.

It’s that simple (and yet still, always, hard — I’m good with that).

(And there is love, too, also, as well.)

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As a reminder to myself, if/when I should need it again, and to anyone else who may need it, this helped me get still and quiet, so I could hear myself:

1. Therapy
2. Yoga
3. Meditation
4. Routine (with a strong emphasis on sleep)

Other things that helped:
— Reading (Brene Brown — Rising Strong, Martha Beck — Leaving the Saints, & Pema Chodron — Things Fall Apart, over and over again)
— Coloring
— Watching the bears for hours because there’s something about nature that’s healing (http://explore.org/live-cams/player/brown-bear-salmon-cam-brooks-falls)
— Saying yes to myself and no to everyone else