Can we be more like leaves?
Ever-changing, willing to fall,
holding on when it's
and translucent enough
to let the light through.
You might be working to pick something up. Or put something down. You might be desperate to forget something terrible. Or longing for a love to set you free. Or grieving someone who is irreplaceable. Or trying to find what will keep you going. Fortune or misfortune. Love or loss. Every circumstance incubates the soul so it might germinate while we are here. And wishing you were someone else or somewhere else only makes things worse. I know it's hard to look this deeply into what we are given. But at the cellular level there are even spaces in stone. And spaces of light in everything dark. And spaces of safety in rushes of fear. And spaces of release in flashes of pain. Even spaces of dawn in the cramps of grief. It's not about running from one to the other. But entering where we are -- thoroughly -- until we can see a way through.
Petition for Presence:
Just be here with me.
Signed: The moon. The stars. Your still hot cup of coffee. Your daughter. Your son. Your spouse. The green grass. The wildflowers. The waters you long to swim in. The color yellow. The color blue. Your favorite poem. Your favorite blanket. The wind in your hair. The waves on the ocean. The mountain air. Postcards waiting to be sent. Ink and paper. Brushes and paint. Downward facing dog. The color turquoise. The skyline. A hammock. Your belly laugh. Your breath. Your breath. Your breath.
"Oh my god, what if you wake up some day, and you're 65 or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn't go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like you were a kid? It's going to break your heart. Don't let this happen." -Anne Lamott
The biggest question we've gotten from fellow roadtrippers is, "where are y'all headed?" Out loud we answer, telling of our next stop - listing out the cardinal directions as if we've been doing this our entire life.
In my head the answer is always quite different. Because where we're headed isn't a place. When we packed up the van two and a half months ago, we only had a vague direction of where we were going. There was no destination and no plan. For the first time in my life, I had no idea where I'd be the next day.
So when people ask, I want to say something like: "we are headed into this moment" or "we are just right here." I'd imagine the search for the present moment could be the endeavor of a lifetime. But for me, the threshold to "now" has been at every canyon's break, every summit hike, and around every forested corner. It has been nestled inside every laugh-til-I-cry session and, surprisingly, every peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And I've been rewarded with every morsel.