Sacred Space

I love quotes. I kind of geek out over them. Sometimes I just read one after the other, searching by author or topic, admiring the way people can condense a thought into a few marvelous words.

I was recently wondering what I could write as a reflection on this past year for our Christmas card and I came across this: “When you let go of what no longer serves you, you create space for what’s meant to be.” Bam. My 2018 in eighteen words.

In June, we sold our second home.  Prior to the sale, I grudgingly created space by cleaning out closets, cabinets, and rooms.  I filled a U-Haul truck with stuff to bring home. This, in turn, required that I create space in my home by cleaning out its closets, cabinets and rooms.  Bags and boxes were donated, sold, or left for trash.

All this space-creating then started an avalanche of cleansing.  Clothes, jewelry and makeup followed. The thing that I did not anticipate, however, was how clearing my physical space would create more space mentally.

I decided to give up teaching a couple of my yoga classes.  This freed me up to take more classes.  And join a choir (unfortunately, this endeavor didn’t work out as I hoped, so, with my newfound respect for my time and space, I promptly gave it up).

When you let go of something, it creates more space in your life for better things to fill it.  Brendan Burchard, author of The Motivation Manifesto, suggests:  “The most crucial task is to forge more life into your day. This does not mean more to-do’s; it means less.  It means creating space to think, walk, eat, sleep, read, love, dream.”

With my newfound space, I started teaching Sunday school a couple Sundays a month and, although many of those mornings I walk slowly to church, clutching my coffee and grumbling about why the hell I decided to take this on, at the end of the hour, I am filled.  I’ve also discovered the joy of teaching yoga one-on-one and seeing the almost immediate results of the practice. And when it is right for me, I am reading more. I am sleeping more. And I am trying to write more.

How about you? Where can you create space physically or mentally? What is asking for your release?  Can you create space to care for yourself, whatever that means to you? Pay attention. Only through stillness can you hear what your heart is saying.  Who knows what you’ll be making room for?

Wishing you all the blessings and joy of the season.  May you be surrounded by everything and everyone you love. Especially sacred space.


The Power of the Pause

I’m snuggled under the covers on a cold but sunny Sunday morning, dog at my feet, a sick teenager by my side, blessedly allowing me to stoke his hair while he rests. No sound but our breathing and the occasional hum of the furnace as it kicks on. A warm cup of coffee to enjoy start to finish.

A pause.

In yoga, the pause is profound.

We pause to notice the flow of breath: the miraculous inhale and exhale, over and over and over, again. We pause to notice our bodies: where we’re holding tension, where we can release. We pause to notice our thoughts: What are we telling ourselves when we can’t hold tree pose as long or as steadily as the person on the mat next to us (or the person we were yesterday)? What bubbles up when we are still and how do we react to it?

In yoga, we practice quieting the body as a gateway to quieting the mind. It is said that the yoga begins when you want to come out of the pose, when things become challenging, when the internal judges show up for court. We practice on the mat to prepare us for our lives off the mat. Life is busy, and our minds are exponentially so. Off the yoga mat, the pause is equally profound.

So when you are late for work and the traffic is intolerable, you stop to pause. When you receive bad news and you reach for the bottle, you pause. When your spouse, or anyone you love (like the teenager sleeping next to me), pushes an internal button, you pause.

“Quieting the mind, becoming present in the moment, experiencing what is rather than trying to create what might be or remaining stuck in what was, are the doorways to freedom from the busy mind. Our minds need to be trained to be an effective ally. It is our responsibility to quiet the mind by entering into the moment—the power of that pause is profound.”

~Aruni Nan Futuronsky, Faculty, Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health

The key point for me in this quote is “our minds need to be trained.” We need to practice. And practice. And practice.

The great author and Buddhist monk, Pema Chodron, says this: “It all comes through learning to pause for a moment, learning not to just impulsively do the same thing again and again. It’s a transformative experience to simply pause instead of immediately filing up the space.”

Find your pause. Be transformed.

My First Valentine

It’s almost Valentine’s Day.  Growing up, my mom always made Valentine’s Day a special day for her only daughter.  Even when I was in college, she would send me a little care package of gifts filled with girly things:  a pretty nightgown (red, of course), a pink bear, hair accessories, fun jewelry, and chocolate.  Always some chocolate.  It was something she did just for me, her little girl, and I’ve never forgotten that.  I do the same for my little Valentines, but there isn’t as much pink.

Mom has been on my mind a lot lately.  It’s been thirteen years since she’s passed, and I’ve aged from 39 to 51.  A lot has happened in those thirteen years:  kids growing (Turner was 7 and Jackson was 4 when she died) and leaving, life-changing accidents, milestone birthdays, career changes, friendships gained and lost, deaths, births.  

Her not being here has gotten “easier;” that is, it’s become more the new normal.  But in many ways, it has gotten harder.  At 39, with two young boys, I pretty much had my adult life ahead of me.  I was secure in the knowledge of my place in the world.  I didn’t have many limitations, physical or otherwise, money was good, being a mom was still relatively new.

Thirteen years later, I don’t have her here to talk about how it felt to say goodbye to me, to watch me grow and leave home, and how she coped with that new normal.  She’s not here for me to apologize to for not being more aware of how painful that likely was, as it is for me.  

She’s not here for me to ask how she dealt with becoming older.  Yes, my hair is, by choice, gray now, but there’s so much more.  It’s coming to terms with life going on despite that, despite feeling more tired, gaining weight by thinking about food, not sleeping, hot flashes, regrets, and realizing that for certain things, the time has simply passed and they are out of my grasp.  

It’s going on in spite of all this and having the energy and positivity to do it.  Some days are harder than others, and I miss having that woman, who loved me more than anyone ever will, tell me it will be okay, that I’M okay.  I miss not having the opportunity to hear how SHE managed it:  the empty nest, marriage to my dad for the majority of her life and the difficult later years due to his alcoholism, the aging, the regrets.

I have a feeling that if I did have the opportunity to speak with my mom, her response would not be especially insightful or earth-shattering, but it would be this: “Sometimes it sucks, but you go on.”  You keep going, you keep looking for, and finding, opportunities to laugh and be grateful.  You keep loving and praying.  You be with what is.  And you always send valentines on Valentine’s Day.  And eat the chocolate.  Definitely eat the chocolate.

Thank you, Mom, for being my first and Valentine, and for always making me yours. Thank you for showing me love in all the phases of your life.  Even now.

Everything Else

Today was a good day. I decided to take advantage and head to our house on the lake to enjoy the last few days of my summer break.

My summer break hasn’t exactly lived up to expectations: a working mission trip, no family vacation or time to enjoy our lake house together, my oldest leaving for college, rounded out by four weeks battling the symptoms of a concussion from a biking accident. Truth be told, I haven’t had many good days recently and I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for myself. 

On the highway en route to said lake house, a car in front of me was swerving a bit from lane to lane. I thought to myself that I might be a witness to an accident, and cautiously held back. 

This got me thinking: if I were a witness to an accident, it would have been because I was at that very specific place at that time. Which meant if I hadn’t had a concussion that sidelined me, I probably wouldn’t be driving to the lake on this particular day at this moment in time. 

This further got me thinking: this applies to everything in life, not just potential accidents. Every experience we have, every choice we make, leads us to the present moment and impacts not only us, but our world. Different choices, different moment, different world.

Thankfully there was no accident. I happily made several stops along the way, one of them at a pottery gallery that I had always passed on the way but never explored. On one of the walls was a wooden plaque with a photograph of bicycle handlebars and the phrase, “Everything else can wait.” I had to buy it. It encapsulated everything I had experienced since that bikeride.

Everything else did wait while I recovered this past month. But I watched the trees moving with the breeze, I observed ants scurrying on the sidewalk, I sat in our dark living room cradling a warm cup of tea listening to the rain through the open windows. I felt the love of friends and family. 

We don’t know the plans that God (or the universe, or whatever it is you believe) has for us. But if we trust and stay present, maybe we can learn to be more content knowing that where we are is exactly where we need to be. 

Everything else can wait.

A Little Bird Told Me…

Funny things happen when you stop. Really stop. Like when you have a concussion and can’t read, use your phone or computer, watch TV or deal with noise.

One morning while sitting outside doing not much more than sitting (see above), a robin landed in the grass in front of me. I watched her as she proceeded to walk through the yard, quickly starting and stopping, patiently waiting for the movement of a worm beneath her. After traversing almost the whole yard, she suddenly and swiftly poked her beak into the earth and pulled up a worm. According to various studies, robins use a combination of primarily visual and auditory cues to find their meal. Imagine being still enough and able to hear a worm moving through dirt!

It was amazing. She stopped, she listened, she felt, and she kept going despite several failed attempts. And in doing all this, she was fed. What a lesson for all of us.

When you truly can’t do anything but listen and be still, you hear a lot. You hear your inner dialogue more clearly. Truth be told, that inner dialogue was not so pleasant the first few days of my “confinement.”

In the Hatha Yoga tradition we strive to practice Ahimsa, both on and off the mat. Ahimsa means non-violence, or “do no harm.” This can have many meanings, and is most often associated with vegetarianism, but it actually is the idea of complete and total absence of violence from one’s body, mind and spirit.  One of the ways we can practice Ahimsa is showing compassion towards ourselves. Violence can come in the form of self-talk, much of which, lets face it, can be negative. And, when you’re laid up after a concussion, plentiful.

There is a discussion going around the internet that we have on average 70,000 thoughts a day, some estimates going as high as 600,000. If you go with the former, that amounts to almost 49 per minute. Considering where my head’s been this week, that number seems exceptionally low.  And imagine if the majority of those thoughts are negative.  That’s a lot of violence.

Jon Westenberg, founder of Creatomic, says this: “When you start to consider how finite your existence and your time and the processes of your brain actually are, you can see how precious the level of mindfulness that requires us to sit up and pay attention really is.”

As fortune would have it, I came across an article (blessedly short – the reading thing, you know) in a Buddhism magazine about love, specifically self-love. In the article the author suggested a meditation that goes something like this:

“This is a moment of suffering.

Suffering is a part of life.

May I be kind to myself at this moment.

May I give myself the compassion I need.”

These words can be altered to fit your own experience, but basically each sentence brings to the forefront that yes, you are in pain – This is a moment of suffering / I am having a hard time right now – that suffering is part of the human experience (no one escapes it, folks) – Suffering is a part of life / Others have been through this – all while keeping you in the present moment – May I be kind to myself at this moment / May I be present with this feeling without judgement –  and setting an intention to be self-compassionate – May I give myself the compassion I need / May I speak to myself as I would speak to a good friend.

As I sat with these words, and breathed them into my heart, I felt released. I didn’t have to beat myself up for my injuries. I still had my faculties. I was worthy of compassion. This would pass.

Then another question arose: When this does pass, what will I have to show for it? What is the lesson? Because there always is one, if (and this is key) you look for it.

I’ve heard it suggested that you are closer to “you” in the time you meditate than in all the other minutes of the day. Those minutes when you are working, serving, rushing and planning aren’t really you, your essence. Your essence is what you touch when you’re still. It’s always there, the light is always shining, but we allow the clouds to cover that light. We allow our busy-ness, our self-talk to take center stage and we lose sight of “you.”

So I have decided to be like that robin. When my soul needs to be fed, I will still myself and listen. I will open my heart, breathe in and speak compassion over and over and over again, remembering the “you”  I really am. I will remember my light.  I will rest in the knowledge that wherever I am is exactly where I need to be. And if all this doesn’t work the first time, I’ll do it again, and again, and again.

I draw the line at worms, though. You know, Ahimsa.

“If you celebrate your differentness, the world will, too. It believes exactly what you tell it—through the words you use to describe yourself, the actions you take to care for yourself, and the choices you make to express yourself. Tell the world you are one-of-a-kind creation who came here to experience wonder and spread joy.” ~Victoria Moran, Author of “Light From Within: Tending Your Soul for Lifelong Beauty”


Speak Life


This morning I was sitting on my back patio with my coffee, watching the summer’s morning rituals on the field below: cheerleaders practicing routines in the end zone, track and fielders running laps, and a group, out of my line of sight, drilling to the constant prodding of their coach. 

You see, our home is situated on a hill directly above our high school football field. This means we are privy to all the activity, and noise, that occurs throughout the school year: band practice and football, soccer, lacrosse, field hockey and track and field practices and games.

The field below is basically a bowl, and sounds echo up to our home endlessly. Some sounds are pleasant and some are like nails on a chalkboard. Sometimes the words are clear, and sometimes, due to sound traveling, they are muddled.

I can’t help but be affected by what I hear, positive or negative. There is always a reaction. There have been times when I’ve needed to leave the comfort of my patio chair to escape the verbal tirade of an angry coach or the cacophony of a cheering crowd. 

And I’m an outsider to the activity. I’m not on the team. I’m not cheering anyone on. I’m not even on the field. But I’m still affected. 

As I sat with my coffee, I thought, “Isn’t this true for all words?” Whatever we say doesn’t just affect the person we are directly speaking to, but everyone else that person comes in contact with. It may not be words at that point, but like echoes in a hillside, those initial interactions create a feeling, an energy. And it spreads, like ripples from a stone thrown in a lake.

I’m sure an angry coach has no intention to be a downer in my day, he’s just doing his job. But I can’t help but wonder, if his words impact me, on a patio drinking coffee with no interest (or, let’s face it, ability, at this point) in being on his team, how can they not impact those kids, and everyone else they will meet this day? 

I have a framed quote in my kitchen from William James: “Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does.” I’m sure Mr. James would agree that what we say makes a difference, too.

Spread love. Speak life. 

Being the Bow

At our lake house I have a Kahlil Gibran quote in a frame flanked by photos of each of my two boys.  They are smiling from the pumpkin patch, young and sweet.  Gibran was a favorite of my brother’s, this excerpt especially, and after his passing it became even more special.

“Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them,

but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children

as living arrows are sent forth.

The Archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,

and He bends you with His might

that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the Archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies,

so He loves also the bow that is stable.”

~Kahlil Gibran

I have always loved the imagery in this piece:  God as The Archer, parents as the bows, the child the arrow.  The idea that He is ultimately in control; that as parents, we don’t own our children, but Life does.

One of those boys in the pumpkin patch will be starting college in a few weeks and “The Day We Say Goodbye” is marked on the calendar.  It’s a phrase that has permeated my summer.  It has dictated my mood, my interactions with people, my interactions with my son.  It’s like a cloud always hovering, darkening my days.  

Most days I can channel the sun, the clouds part, and I realize I am blessed, and I am grateful.  I know I am.  But some days I unexpectedly get this random glimpse of him at the age of three, or ten, or even right now, and my heart feels like it’s literally being torn from my chest.

Yes, I know it’s not “Good-Bye” in the permanent sense.  I will still be his mother; I will always be his mother.  But after “that day,” as we drive away, everything will change.  He will be embarking on a glorious adventure that will take him to places I cannot even imagine, within and without.  Places I “cannot visit, not even in my dreams.”  He will discover himself, apart from us. He will chart his own course.

More than anything, he will have the time of his life. He will create memories and friendships and relationships that will last a lifetime. He will expand his mind and world and, most importantly, he will discover himself.  He will set his course and even though it may change, and change often, he will be blessed with the opportunity to take charge of his own life.

And for that, I am so, so grateful.  

But along with the gratitude comes the realization that he will have hard days, and hard nights.  He will get sick. He will question himself.  He will be disappointed, by others and probably by himself.  He will meet girls and maybe fall in love with one (or two) of them.  Or maybe get his heart broken.  In the midst of finals.  

The conundrum is that while this breaks my heart, and his absence will be profoundly felt by all of us, I know it is what needs to happen.  It’s what every parent wants, for their child to fly.  On their own.  If I am honest with myself, my children are my gift to this world.  They have given me purpose beyond myself.  And I need to give this gift away, no matter how much I love it.  

I thank God for the blessing of being this young man’s mother and the opportunity to raise him.  It has been my greatest challenge, my greatest joy.  But for now, I will pray to trust The Archer and the mark He sees on the path of the the infinite, bending as much as I can and feeling myself held in His arms.