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Channel: Cycles + Seasons Archives - SheChanges

The Right Hook of Physics

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physicsA couple of weeks ago, I wrote about this amazing experience I had where I literally drew my intention with my whole body. My intention?  To be more luminous.

I shared how I felt luminous as I embodied that word in the circle of women gathered that night. It was powerful and mysterious. Like magic.

I felt like a High Priestess conjuring something from the depths of my soul.

Driving home that night, my whole body felt alive and vibrating with vitality — as if I had tapped into some divine charging station that continued to juice my batteries. I felt deeply connected – to myself, to the circle of women that had been strangers earlier that night, and to my purpose. I felt as if the aperture of my soul had widened, allowing in some much needed oxygen, creative energy, and mojo. I could breathe. Deeply.

There was a halo effect from that experience as well. I went through my week feeling grounded, present and grateful. I gathered my family for a similar ritual to honor the new moon in Libra. We pulled tarot cards, created “God boxes” and did an amazing despacho ceremony (an offering of gratitude back to the earth). We were digging it. The whole family — and even my eldest son’s best friend who happen to be spending the night — commented on how peaceful and relaxed they felt afterward.

ritualThat evening ushered in a weekend that felt deeply nourishing.

Now maybe you know what happened next, but I sure as hell didn’t see it coming. What happened next felt like a right hook out of no where that left my jaw sore, chaffed my spirit and made my ass twitch in annoyance — like I’d been bamboozled or something precious had been taken from me.

Here’s what happened:

As the weekend rolled on into Sunday, life started to feel more congested with brass tacks. Reality started to hit. I dragged out our bill basket, collected all the debit receipts, and opened the computer, knowing full well the rat’s nest of untangling that lay ahead of me as I did our bi-weekly bookkeeping. My husband, meanwhile, tackled the mounting dirty laundry piles, replacing them eventually with clean laundry piles stacked in the room all around us needing to be put away. He also fell on the sword and did the grocery shopping for the week, coming home with more bags that now filled up the kitchen floor, adding more receipts to the pile that seemed bottomless.

He looked tired and disenchanted and I felt like Bartleby the scrivener all hunched over the computer and myopic in my vision. We both were sighing a lot. Audibly.

Later that night, we dug into all of our financial files, printed recent statements, and ran reports because we had been putting off compiling all the necessary documents for the new financial planner we were starting with who needed them the next day. We were cranky, overwhelmed, and pissed that we had waited until the last minute to do this dreaded task.

This is all normal household stuff and part of living, I realize. And yes, I’m grateful we can afford groceries, have a home, and have access to a financial planner. I am aware many people cannot and do not. I’m also grateful I have a committed and loving partner in all this. My point is not to complain about the daily grind of living that most of us are all too familiar with these days. I could just suck it up, stuff it down, and suffer in silence, saying mean-spirited things to myself (you have no right to feel this way…you have nothing to complain about…you’re so lucky you miserable shrew!), but that’s not what I’m about these days. I’m kind of done with actively participating in my own shame.

Now, I’m about keeping it real, being honest, and showing myself more fully. So hang with me. Because what happened next was…ironically illuminating.

My point is that suddenly, almost overnight — like a switch had been thrown — everything started to feel pinched, constricted, and dire. As we pulled out insurance policies, I started to worry about fires, theft and total disaster. I started to think about death and destruction and how devastated we would feel. I started to think about all the people, things, and dreams we could lose at the blink of an eye. I started to focus on everything we didn’t have instead of everything we did have.  I started to think about the political election we face in November, the environmental crisis we’re in, and the epidemic of violence that seems to be running rampant.

In short, I started to feel vulnerable, and found myself knocking on wood, crossing myself (even though I’m not christian), and noticing the black cats in the neighborhood (when did there get to be so many?) My husband found me wrapped in a blanket that cold, gray Monday afternoon after I’d brought my youngest son home from school, knees to my chest, rocking back and forth with a deeply furrowed brow.

What happened to being luminous?” he asked gently. 

He held up the mirror of me not three days before in which I could see myself then — all glowing and expansive and radiant, which gave me pause. What had happened to me? Where had that woman gone? Why wasn’t I fucking luminous anymore? I wanted that shit back again. Stat.

I felt like I’d done something wrong, like I’d misplaced my intention, dropped my eye from the ball, or fallen prey to the pervasive suck of fear, lack and disconnect that is seems to saturate our consciousness through main stream media these days.

To be honest, I couldn’t even remember that woman who felt luminous just three days before. In that moment, she felt like a figment of my imagination — trite, silly, lacking substance. Gone.

Thankfully, the very next day I happen to be sitting with a wise woman. I was explaining to her how I’d lost my luminous, and she smiled at me.

(this is where it gets good — I love when people smile at me like that…) 

It makes sense that if you want to feel more luminous, you would also experience greater darkness.” 

forcesinpairsDoh! As I heard her say that, a flood of rightness washed over my body like someone had finally taken her finger out of the dam. The “someone”, in this case, was me.  I had been doing my best to staunch the feelings I had been making wrong in me, when, in fact, they were a natural consequence of the laws of physics.

My whole body exhaled with relief. Permission to honor the entirety of my human experience came riding in on the next breath.

Nothing was wrong with me…it was simply science that was right. And then I smiled at the wise woman sitting across from me and said:

“Of course. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” 

It was not only entirely natural, it was a LAW. It wasn’t just me experiencing this — it’s everything that does…the tides, the moon, and those little paddles with the rubber ball connected by a string. I started to remind myself of all the ways this was true…

If you push your body physically beyond what it’s used to, your muscles will be sore the next day
When you knead pizza dough on the counter, it will both expand and contract
The longest day of the summer will be mirrored by the darkest day of the winter
When the tires of a car push against the road, the road will naturally push back against the tires
The wings of a bird push air downwards, the air pushes the bird upwards

It’s how friction is created. It’s what enables something to have form and move. 

Now this is where I come clean and let you know that one of my few regrets in this lifetime is that I never had physics in high school or college. So there’s that.

But there’s also a deeper appreciation of this: the degree to which I challenge myself to become more luminous — to allow myself to shine brighter, be more visible, and be powered by my fullest wattage — needs to be equally matched by my willingness to feel a deeper level of darkness, which naturally comes as a result of that lightness.

It’s the shadow side of a luminous life.

If being luminous was the full moon, being with darkness was the new moon. It’s a package deal, apparently. So clearly, I need to be gracious enough with myself to receive both of these gifts, and stop pretending as if I can simply chose one and opt out of the other.

There is no surprise here. I had simply forgotten what’s natural.

Brene Brown talks about this a lot, suggesting that those people who live their lives most whole heartedly are also the ones who are willing to feel the most vulnerable. Not just once, but always. Danielle LaPorte talks about how “being the giver” is a sure fire way to experience a life of abundance — and I would add that it also makes you keenly aware of the level of need, potentially raising internal conversations around greed or selfishness. Want to live a life with more integrity? Better be willing to look at shame. Want to live a more balanced life? Get ready to experience some imbalance.  Want to live more simply? You may be gobsmacked by the complexities of life. Debbie Ford writes about the need to face these very things within ourselves in her book, The Dark Side Of The Light Chasers. Hell Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock even sing about it.. “Joy…and pain…sunshine…and rain.” 

It’s powerful information to know what lives on the dark side of your moon. 

And now that I had remembered, the darkness doesn’t seem as scary as it once was. I am finding I’m not bracing for it quite like I used to, clinging to the light side for dear life. I now see them as allies, not adversaries. Sort of a dynamic duo that will ultimately support me in moving forward.

Which means my work now will be about foster better relationships with each of them individually, learning how to move through my days exposed to both brighter light and deeper darkness. Increasing my capacity to be luminous, while also increasing my capacity to be with darkness. I can’t want more of one without expecting more of the other to show up in equal measure.

This realization feels new, but in many ways it’s another version of what I’ve been writing about for years. It’s just that I’m having another go at it, having the very real human experience of forgetting, only to remember something anew. And that, too, is natural. When we are in the light, we literally cannot see the dark, so we tend to forget about it — out of sight, out of mind. Until we see it again — and then we wonder that the light ever existed.

It seems Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock were onto something…it does take two to make a thing go right.

The post The Right Hook of Physics appeared first on SheChanges.


Dear March

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Dear March,

How is it, that after forty-nine years of doing this dance, I am totally blind-sided each year by you?

Would it have made a difference if I remembered the punch you pack with your one-two hits of snowstorms and virus that demolish our well-oiled machine of a home ? Could I have better anticipated, planned or even mitigated against the inevitable shit storm that ensues like clockwork each and every time you pull into town? Am I deficient in character or vitamin D, somehow— not physically, mentally or emotionally equipped with the necessary fortitude, self-care practices or time management skills needed to endure your formidable presence?

Am I simply no match for you, is that what it is? Do you get off on bringing me to my knees each year with your show of force?

I thought about all this, March, as I laid flat on my back in bed last week, hacking up a lung, sweaty with fever, and not-so-silently cursing you. And when I finally stumbled out of bed because I couldn’t stand the look of my own ceiling one minute longer, I saw this de-stuffed, face-down bunny of Max’s on the floor and thought:
 

This is what March does to me. 

If I’m being brutally honest—which actually is all your fault, March—this is how I feel.

I wonder, though… must it always be like this between us? This perennial knock-down, drag out street fight, where you always emerge the victor and I inevitably get wrapped around a tree in the forest like one of those stupid witch-on-broomsticks decorations everybody thinks are so clever.

Fetched up. Stopped in my tracks. Doused with a ice-cold bucket of wake-the-fuck-up water.

But now that the first two weeks of your month are in my rear-view mirror, March, and the worst (I hope) of the sweaty ordeal is behind me, I’m not as mad at you. In a strange twist, I’m actually grateful you’re here.

In your visit each calendar year, there is a reckoning with my inner and outer worlds like no other—as if something reaches inside me and presses that red reset buttons on the electrical outlet of me after my circuits  had been blown.

When I think about it that way, March, I actually think you are more akin to a lifeline, than an adversary—jumpstarting me annually like a defibrillator.

Because as frustrating as you are, and as much as I resist you each year, you inevitably leave me better than you found me.

Isn’t it ironic, that what began as an official grievance with you, is now turning into a letter of appreciation.
 

But then you know how stubborn I am, so perhaps you’re not all that surprised.

Because of you, March, I rest more deeply this month than I do the entire year long. The collapse-on-my-face, boneless chicken, everything-can-wait, crystal-clear-on-what-matters sort of rest. The kind of rest that takes me WAY past my previous understanding of what true rest really feels like. You connect me with my body, leaving me more capable of truly caring for myself.

Because of you, March, my heart opens even wider to receiving—receiving love (from myself and others), help, guidance, clarity—and the medicine goes all the way down because my defenses are down. You connect me with what it means to belong and be loved, leaving me open to experience both more fully.

Because of you, March, I come closer to death (feel free to roll your eyes and call me dramatic, but that was one hell of a virus last week…), and has me touch that “what will people be saying about me at my funeral” question which inevitably has me cut through all the bullshit and noise in a busy life and gather to my heart all that is nearest and dearest. You connect me with the stuff that truly matters, leaving me with clear priorities rooted in my values, not my assumptions or expectations.

Because of you, March, I see how hard I had been paddling in a circle with one oar, and begin to trust in the wisdom of the things I cannot yet see, understand, know to want, or plan for. I just put it all down and look to be lead somewhere. I believe it’s called surrendering. You connect me with my divinity, leaving me with a freshly-kindled spiritual fire.

Because of you, March, I see the crumbs and dog fur on the kitchen floor as reminders of good meals and groovy kind of love, and the stacks of laundry as testament to having had somewhere to go outside my home each day. You connect me with a powerful perspective, leaving me with gratitude where there once was resentment.

Because of you, March, my thoughts shift to those outside my own little world inside my head, and give me a renewed appreciation for the many gifts I have been given in this life—shelter, food, safety, love, education, opportunity—that so many others go through life without. You connect me with my humanity and my humility, leaving me more compassionate.

I guess it’s kind of like that Rumi quote, isn’t it March:
 

“The wound is the place where the light enters you”

(Yes, March, you are, in fact, the wound in this scenario….) But please hear me when I say that I am officially down with what you’re doing over there. And while I’ll probably forget we had this conversation, I dunno, eleven months from now…I will most likely meet you again with my fists up, resistant to everything about you and ready to rumble and do our dance again.

I won’t ask you not to take it personally, because clearly it is. Happily, that fact doesn’t seem to stop you from paying me a visit each year. Months are funny that way—they just keep showing up, ready or not..

 

Want to hear more stories like this?

It’s not too late to grab a ticket for my Unscripted Evening coming on Thursday, March 15th. Still hungry? My book Unscripted: A Woman’s Living Prayer is chocked full of stories like this, too. And wait until you read the second one I’m writing…
 

Are you someone who uncovers the truth inside you through writing?

You might be interested in my In Her Words writing experience coming up in April. It’s less about what you write (quality), and more about the fact that it actually has you write (the process). It’s one of my favorite groups to run, and it’s the only one available to people outside the state of Maine. FMI, read more about it here, or reach out to me to see if it’s a good fit.

The post Dear March appeared first on SheChanges.

Tuesday’s Instructions

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The morning wakes me before the alarm.
Eyes open, the bluebird sky fills the windows.
My body exhales and a smile forms under my ribcage.

Winter sun.
A welcome sight after the cold gray steel of yesterday.

Warm socks. Hot coffee. My favorite chair in a patch of sun.
Silence as the house still sleeps. The dog curled up on the carpet next to me.
Awareness of an organic ritual finding me, this time I take each morning.
Intending to read, the book stays unopened on my lap.

I watch as the morning sun makes its way into our neighborhood.
Idly moving across the street, it takes up residence on front porches.
It feels intimate—almost voyeuristic—watching the sun and its travels.
Does it know I’m watching?

Take me to church says a voice from deep inside me, clear as the sky on this December morning.

Something in my body shifts, wondering if I will respond.
But I brush it like an errant crumb, dismissing it as a lovely thought that fell out of my head.

Take me to church I hear again, this time slower.

Again, my body shifts, willing myself to take notice.

There is still coffee in my mug.
The dog has already been for his walk.
Besides, I reason, it’s Tuesday.

As if church could be contained by a one day.
As if I were literal in my interpretation.
As if I didn’t know we were talking about nature’s church.

Take. Me. To. Church.

I sighed at the inconvenience of it all.
I was still in my pajamas.
I had work to do.
It looked cold outside.
And it’s Tuesday, after all.

And yet.

Something in me was moved beyond stirring.
Something in me was already responding.
Something in me had said yes to these instructions.

In my mind, I had made a concession.
A walk with the dog, right now, not later.
No noise in my ears to distract me, just the crisp morning air and sunlight.
That would be church, right?

But as I pulled off my pajamas and pulled on my clothes, I found a different deal had been made.
I reached for the warm layers and thick socks.
I braided my hair, readying it for a hat and the sort of wind that comes off the water.

This would not be a neighborhood walk.
Not today.
Today I would be taking myself to church, it seems.
A church surrounded by water.

Warm boots. Car keys. Dog leash.
A short drive and a long cosway.
Water on both sides of me like guardrails, guiding me.

High tide. No people. Blue sky and water.
Message received. Permission granted. Opportunity taken.
Tuesday’s instructions.

Something in me exhales deeply as my car door opens on the island.

Welcome to church the voice deep inside me said.

The water envelopes me like an old friend who has been summoned.
The morning light makes its way through the tall trees like sentries along my path.
Empty benches are strewn about like gentle invitations.
My pace slows.
Silence grows.

And I am filled up with church.
Grateful for following the instructions I had been given.
Even on Tuesday.

Especially on a Tuesday.

The post Tuesday’s Instructions appeared first on SheChanges.

Happy New Year

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happynewyearWe were quite a sight that day, arriving at my youngest son’s elementary school for the annual “watermelon welcome”. A few people, seeing us hobble up the front walk, asked us if we had been in a car accident. No, we assured them, we’d just had a bit of a rough summer.

My husband, having crushed his arm in an accident back in early July, had six metal bars sticking out of his forearm (an “external fixator”) that were in plain view despite the thin sheath of gauze he used on such outings to spare people the full impact of his edward-scissorhand-esque arm. I donned a big gray boot on my foot, having broken my toe weeks earlier, but it packed quite a wallop visually because I had bedazzeled it with puffy paint that gave it sort of a cyborg-rocker vibe.

Needless to say, we were quite the pair.

The kids, happily, were healthy as clams and ran ahead to meet their friends as we hobbled behind and did our best not to let a wayward braid or a sticky toddler snag the metal bars sticking out of Todd’s arm.

When we arrived at the door, we were greeted by the principal and a bunch of parent volunteers who were holding the door, and managing the chaos with smiles on their faces.

“Happy New Year!” one of them said, as we finally arrived at the door, and we were given New Year’s tiaras.

I felt like Todd and I were the underdog team that had just completed an episode of the Amazing Race and were standing at the end of the journey on that little mat, about to find out – surprise – we were actually not eliminated this round. I literally remember exhaling at the entrance of that school, thinking “WE MADE IT.”

It felt like a finish line.

And as we crossed over the threshold into the lobby of that familiar school, wearing our tiaras and taking in all the fresh faces of the teachers and sharp new pencil smells of the hallways, it occurred to me:

September is the start of my new year. Always has been, always will be.

At first I used to think it was simply because of my conditioning as a student, always “starting” the new year in September, which gradually morphed into adulthood when I began to work in a boarding school as a professional in my first career. Growing up, most of my friends where Jewish, so I was accustomed to this time of year quite literally marking the end of one year and the beginning of the next according to their faith. Then I thought it was about becoming a parent, and how our entire year gradually started to rotate and revolve around the school year, starting in September and ending in June.

But now, as I’m hearing so many more people – like my friends and clients who don’t have kids – talk about their feelings about September, it feels like something more. It feels deeper than education and religious calendars. It feels… primal. And I know I’m not alone. There’s something about this time of year that feels “new”, and I suspect it has to do with leaving behind what was and charting a course for what will be – ready or not.

It’s the changing of the guard time of year, when grief and denial and dread of the summer being over collide with distinct hints of excitement and optimism and eagerness of a fresh start. It’s when playing hooky trades places with a do-over. It’s an in-between place, September…definitely not summer, but still not autumn. No longer there, but not yet here. Feet in one location, but head in another. Moving forward, and yet still holding on. Too cold for shorts and flipflops, but too hot for pants and leather boots.

So what was it, exactly? Where the hell am I?

Feeling a little battered and bruised to begin with this year, I entered September feeling disoriented and ungrounded.

So I did what I always do when I feel ungrounded: I read. In this case, I pulled out everything I had about the seasons, hoping to find something that would help to tether my understanding and right my ship that felt lost at sea. And I found it.

It turns out that according to Chinese medicine and Native American beliefs, there are actually FIVE seasons in the year – Winter, Spring, Summer, LATE SUMMER (ever heard of “Indian Summer”?), and Fall. I had no idea – where has this bonus season been hiding my whole life? It’s often referred to as the “five element theory“. Huh.

Late Summer is actually a distinct season – the shortest one of the year, lasting 4-6 weeks – and is associated with the earth element. That made sense as I read it, because I found I had this intense craving for “grounding” and “getting grounded”. Something in me must have instinctively known this, because I had already given up caffeine and pulled out my bracelets with wooden beads and had been applying really earthy oils like frankincense, sandalwood and patchouli.

Come to find out this season packs a wallop just like my bedazzled boot. Because of its shortness, it’s a time a intense metamorphosis in nature and within ourselves. It’s marked by extreme swings in weather (hot, cold, wet, dry, windy, stagnant, crispy, soggy), which consequently can be a mirror for our what’s going on in our internal environments. Apparently this is a season when things are in motion, both inwardly and outwardly, effectively disabling us from holding on to anything in particular.

Ergo the desire to stay grounded and centered lest things go into total chaos. Sound familiar?

Because while it’s all perfectly natural, it’s also pretty fucking scary when it’s happening. I know this personally, but also because of my clients who have been navigating these waters recently with me as their witness. Clients have used words like “stuck”, “stalled”, “overwhelmed” and “meh” as they are seeking to move toward something, and feel like the wind they were feeling so strongly in their sails just a short time ago has just…disappeared. As a consequence, things seem take a wee bit more effort and focus than they usually do, like trying to walk through a living room with a small child clamped around one of your legs.

So I’m sending this post out into the ether just in case you’ve been concerned it’s just you. Just in case you’ll feel like you’ve lost your way, used up all your mojo or don’t recognize yourself. Just in case, you’re feeling neither here nor there. Maybe you’re through it already and have burst out the other side with all your colors flying – in which case, good on you! But maybe you’re not quite there yet. In which case, sometime thinking in things in terms of “seasons” – especially when you find a bonus one! – can feel immensely soothing and entirely validating.

Like a bearing on a compass. Or a tiara on your head.

 

Want some more bearings on yourself this season?

  • Join me next Thursday night on the autumn equinox (Sept 22nd) at Sherman’s Books in Portland as I do a reading, give a talk and answer questions about making the transition from here to there. Starts at 6:30, completely free and open to all!
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    5 Antidotes For A Rugged April

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    April seems to have had its way with women this month and was a particularly rugged patch of road to navigate for many—emotionally, physically and spiritually. Limits were tested. Patience wore thin. Bodies were sick and tired. Ugly and rude behaviors surfaced with more frequency. And hope was spotty and threadbare in places.

    For some, a logistical shit storm hit hard, and time wasn’t our own..

    Others experienced physical blows that took them—or a loved one— out at the knees.

    Still others witnessed many WTF moments when behaviors of people they thought they knew went off the rails, and were expressed in unchecked and ugly ways.

    Some felt as if everything sort of “blew up” in April—schedules, plans, visions, expectations—even before the ink had a chance to dry on them.

    Does this resonate with you or someone you know? If not, good on you, my friend—there’s probably nothing to see here then. But if this feels like I’ve just described your April, then read on ghost rider, and let’s do the final fly by of this rugged April tower together.

    What happened in April? That’s the question I’m hearing a lot these days…You know, the sort of experience that has you checking to see if mercury is in retrograde or calling that friend who always seems to know what’s happening astrologically.  The bottomline: I have no idea (although I’m not gonna lie, my go-to resource in these WTF moments is Lee Harris for his monthly energy updates…”Talk to me, Lee…”), and to some degree I’m just happy it’s over.

    “In order to get the rainbow, you must be able to deal with the rain.”
    Dolly Parton

    But before we turn the calendar month to May, I thought I’d pause and offer my take on this and what I’m finding/hearing helps women stay whole, focused and grounded in the truth of who we are as we make our way from here to there.

    Because here’s the thing I’m most keenly aware of right now:

    We need each other, now more than ever.

    So if something I share here finds a home in your soul today, have at it, sister. And please pass it along to someone in your orbit. Because most of what I’m going to share with you, I’ve received from women just like you who happen to send it my way. Consider me a feminine transmitter, giving and receiving the collective wisdom that spreads like a magical wildfire among women in my SheChanges orbit.

    I’ve been reflecting a lot on the Spring Equinox. I know it technically happened back in March, but I’ve come to appreciate the equinoxes more in terms of a season than a number on the calendar. Unlike the Solstices in Summer and Winter, I find the Equinoxes aren’t particularly times of grace, but are a lot more jarring on the senses—especially the Spring Equinox. That’s a thorny little bugger to navigate.

    Think of how a spring crocus must feel breaking through the crusty earth for the first time (“ouch, ouch, ouch…OUCH!”)

    Think of how it can be sunny and 70 degrees or snowing and 30 degrees….all in the same week (“Wait…WHAT!?).

    Think of how frost or snow must feel on tender greens or freshly exposed flowers petals  (“JIMINY FRIGGIN CRICKET!”)

    Nature mirrors us back to ourselves, but somehow (time and time again) we forget we are also nature…and therefore natural.

    Simply put, we are all experiencing transition. Together.

    And unlike the grace and surrender that can easily happen at solstices—at the height of summer or the depth of winter—the equinoxes can be a particularly loud and rugged transition, with bumps, thumps and some frost heaves that can have you bottom-out. And this year? It was one of the loudest I’ve witnessed with my clients and have personally felt in a while. Perhaps it’s because we are a microcosm of what is happening at a macro level for our evolution.

    It’s like we are feeling the lowercase “t” transition at a time of intense uppercase “T” transition.

    No matter where you are in that, here are five antidotes I’ve found to be helpful to ease the transitional effects of April.**

    “If you surrender to the air, you can ride it.”
    Toni Morrison

     

    Divine Feminine Oracle by Meggan Watterson

    I have been using tarot and oracle cards for years to connect with the divine and help me see and feel what often feels just out of my reach—especially when the swirl of my thoughts kicks up and my over-tired brain tries to “help” me figure things out. Not surprisingly I gravitate to feminine models and images to offer a refreshingly familiar and validating women’s perspective that wasn’t given to me in our history books, cultural messages or religious tombs. This is where and how I remember what has been forgotten and buried (or burned) out of my consciousness, but still lives in my bones. Most recently, Meggan’s oracle deck has been filling and fueling my weary soul, offering me countless images and stories of women that remind me I am not alone, but am following in some pretty badass footsteps—especially when I feel most alone or crazy. One of these fine ladies inevitably reminds me what I know to be true and gives me guidance for my path.

    The Serenity Prayer

    I actually Googled this earlier this week, because for the life of me I couldn’t remember the first half of it (which is extremely telling if you know me at all…). If you’re not familiar with this prayer, it’s most commonly associated with its use with Alcoholics Anonymous and other twelve-step programs as a means to stay present to each day as it unfolds—and take it one day at a time. Discernment is the key here, inviting us to winnow out what is outside of our control from what is within our ability to change. Simple and powerful. I put it on my fridge this month with a heart-shaped magnet.

    Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
    The courage to change the things I can,
    And the wisdom to know the difference.

     

    Do Less by Kate Northrup

    I’ve been loving Kate’s latest book, Do Less. I found myself making audible whoops on certain passages as she calls bullshit on this obsession we have with more, better, faster, and offers a refreshing and timely invitation to “lean out” of the systems that are not designed to support life. Specifically, she points to how the systems and structures so many of us find ourselves in were designed by men for men—not women. This has been my life’s work thus far at SheChanges, supporting women aligning around this belief, and then designing change—for herself, for her company—that honors that understanding. Kate writes “women don’t need to lean in to fix the system. We need to lean out so that the systems that don’t support our well-being can collapse and new ones can be formed. And that’s what we’re doing…in droves.”  BOOM! Amen to that, sister. Don’t know what that means to you and your life? She offers fourteen distinct invitations to experiment with doing less, as a means to see for yourself what it’s like.

    Brene Brown’s Netflix Special

    Holy SHIT this is good. I had so many texts from clients the night this Netflix special dropped, insisting that I stop everything and watch it. I finally got around to it on Saturday night—and then again the next night…this time with my beloved. Then I texted it to a handful of my clients. Brene just does it for me, and this Netflix special is just her at her best. In one hour, she weaves together her own stories with loads of examples as well as her research around topics of vulnerability, courage and what life is like for those in the arena. All along the way, she drives home this one beautiful invitation to her audience: “choose courage over comfort”, and seals it with this prophetic kiss: “you do vulnerability knowingly or vulnerability will do you.” She underscores again and again, how much we need each other these days, and how our ability to truly connect—first with ourselves, and then with each other—is the key to… everything. Perhaps the best sixty consecutive minutes of screen-time I’ve invested in along time.

    “I’m not going to bullshit you. Vulnerability is hard. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s not as hard and uncomfortable as getting to the end of your life and asking, ‘What if I had shown up?’, ‘What if I had said I love you?’, ‘What if I had gotten off the blocks?'”

    Brene Brown

     

    She Let Go by Safire Rose

    A client texted me this poem the other day and I just stopped in my tracks. I put my hand to my chest and wept. This poem touched something deep and tender in my heart—and felt like a feminine version of the traditional masculine invitation to surrender. It was just so beautiful and powerful and relevant, I have no words…so I’ll just leave you now and offer you Safire’s words as a final tribute to the humble lessons of April.

    She let go.
    She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.
    She let go of the fear.
    She let go of the judgments.
    She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.
    She let go of the committee of indecision within her.
    She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.
    Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.
    She didn’t ask anyone for advice.
    She didn’t read a book on how to let go.
    She didn’t search the scriptures.
    She just let go.
    She let go of all of the memories that held her back.
    She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.
    She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.
    She didn’t promise to let go.
    She didn’t journal about it.
    She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.
    She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper.
    She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.

    She just let go.
    She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.
    She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.
    She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment.
    She didn’t call the prayer line.
    She didn’t utter one word.
    She just let go.
    No one was around when it happened.
    There was no applause or congratulations.
    No one thanked her or praised her.
    No one noticed a thing.
    Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.
    There was no effort.
    There was no struggle.
    It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.
    It was what it was, and it is just that.
    In the space of letting go, she let it all be.
    A small smile came over her face.
    A light breeze blew through her.
    And the sun and the moon shone forevermore…

     

    ** FYI, none of the links provided are affiliate links. Just me sharing the love with you…just because I can

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    Daily Verse 11.14.20—Nature’s Clock

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    I recently spent some time on a coastal island in Maine. It was off-season, mid-week, and nothing fancy. I got the impression I was the only one who didn’t live full-time on the island, and I felt more like a quiet observer than a tourist as a result.

    This was the sort of island whose economy naturally centered on the tides and ocean around it. I watched the fishing boats head out into the early morning fog, with traps being set, checked, and hauled. It seemed like hard and solitary work, but when I thought about it a bit more, I realized the reverence these people had for the sea—her fickle moods, her every-changing channels, and her power to both create and weather constant storms—was their constant companion.

    Having married a potato farmer’s son from Northern Maine whose parents scraped a living from the soil year after year, I had heard stories about working with the rhythms of nature to appreciate how hard it can be. And having lived in Maine for over twenty-five years and visited island communities like this before, this wasn’t an entirely new revelation about working in concert with the natural world.

    But something about 2020 has radically altered my relationship to time, it seems—it feels disorienting, uncertain, and not reliable, like one of those cartoon clocks where the dials spin around and around senselessly. Unlike the soil and the seasons of the earth that my husband’s family relied upon, my time on the island reminded me of the water that surrounds and shapes our land, and how her clock cannot be contained or managed by us, no matter how hard we try. The water will always find her way forward and down, in her own way, in her own time. It’s her nature. Maybe someday soon our oceans will help us to remember just how fluid the nature of time is. And we will be the wiser for it, taking her lead.

     

    Want to know what these daily verses are all about? Read here to learn what inspired this practice on my birthday post, November 1st.

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    Winter called. She’ll be here soon.

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    I used to dread winter.

    I get cold really easily.
    I have struggled with depression in the past.
    I’m a social creature who loves long summer days.
    I prefer bare feet over boots.
    I love the feeling of warm sun on my skin.

    So naturally, my relationship to winter used to be this:

    HERE IT COMES!!! (like that infamous line from Game of Thrones…)
    GIRD YOUR LOINS!! (like Stanley Tucci announcing the arrival of Miranda in The Devil Wears Prada.
    JUST GET THROUGH IT! (like the worst scenes from Gladiator)
    HANG ON–don’t lose your mind! (like Tom Hanks in Castaway)

    Okay, so maybe I’m being dramatic.
    Or maybe I’m being brutally honest.
    Probably both.

    But my experience of winter for most of my life has been dread, panic, and defensiveness. I used to see winter as the enemy. I needed to hold my line or else engage in mortal combat.

    That’s healthy, right? Sure it is…

    It’s actually a recipe for disaster (or at least exhaustion) for someone who, say, decided to plant roots in northern New England.

    But that’s bull$shit now that I’m thinking about it.

    When I was a girl reading Pippi Longstocking, Anne of Green Gables, Ramona the Brave, and books with Laura Ingalls, I didn’t have that relationship to winter at all. I LOVED winter.

    Winter used to mean snow days from school, waking up to that hushed feeling when you just KNEW there was snow on the ground. It meant hot cocoa and hot fires, long games of Monopoly, and building blanket forts inside—or elaborate snow forts outside. It meant decorating a live tree indoors and putting presents under it. It meant sucking on candy canes until the tips were sharp, like a needle.

    It meant appreciating the sensation of warmth, like when my mom wrapped me in toasty sheets, fresh out of the dryer when I came in from playing outside.

    What happened to me? Why did winter stop being magical, like a gift ready to be wrapped around me at the end of each year?

    I recorded a little something for you here…reflecting on winter and what I’ve learned about living in a cycle.

    I know what happened. I bought into that whole “adulting” package we’re sold—the one that comes with expectations to be productive, be serious, be consistent, be responsible, and act your age. Ick. Ptew. Blech.

    Having young kids gave me an “excuse” to reclaim winter for a while, but then they had the audacity to grow up, the little rascals. They didn’t need me anymore to stay home with them when school was canceled. Plus, I work for myself, so who am I asking for permission for, exactly?

    Ah, right! Society.

    But then the pandemic hit and we ALL found ourselves at home, thrown into an early winter like a big, wooden clog got jammed into the gears of the machine on the factory floor, bringing “normal operations” to a grinding halt. (fun fact: did you know this is the root of the word “saboteur”? Sabot is french for a clog, and this was one of the earliest forms of workers protesting…)

    I’m not where I used to be with winter—at all. I’m actually excited for it, clapping my hands in anticipation of its arrival. Have a listen to how I feel now.

    Maybe it’s because I’ve found a way to reclaim my inner 9-year-old girl. Maybe it’s because I’m menopausal and my give-a-shit meter about what society expects of me as a woman or an adult is worn out. Maybe it’s because I now get the power of taking vitamin D3. Or maybe it’s simply because I know my own operating system much better now, and “normal” is not for me.

    Are you over there feeling that, too?

    Perhaps you’ve always had a lovely relationship with winter, and if that’s the case, I am inspired by you. But from where I sit, so many of my clients, friends, and neighbors have been talking about how something has shifted for them with regard to winter.

    Many, like me, are cultivating a different—dare I say better?—relationship to winter this year. They’re EAGER for it. Hungry, even. Their eyes light up and their souls do a little happy dance of anticipation as they prepare to drop into the invitation of winter with wild abandon.

    I’m right there, too.

    In fact, my experience of winter now feels like this luscious image from The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, when Sean Penn calls Walter to a grand adventure he can’t even think to imagine…

    I am drawn forward, unable to resist, eager to respond.

    Winter is calling and she wants to have a conversation. In fact, she has some gifts.

    Here are three questions you might consider as winter makes her way to your home this year:

    • If your soul could talk, what does it want for you this winter? Wrap that up.
    • If you accepted the invitation of winter, what would your theme song be? Make the playlist.
    • What is the permission slip winter is writing for you this year? Write that $hit down.

    Think about these as you make your way into the heart of the winter, and maybe, just maybe a lovely conversation will happen and some unexpected gifts will be given—right on time, delivered just for you.

    I’ll be right here, doing the same.

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    Wintering

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    Winter in forest - Photo by Donnie Rosie on Unsplash

    This winter feels different.  Winter in forest - Photo by Donnie Rosie on Unsplash

    Seriously, I know we’re in year #@$& of a pandemic, but doesn’t it feel like something is….shifting? In our hard-wiring, our priorities or maybe even our vision?

    I feel like years from now, if you and were to meet and reflect on our lives, we would point to this winter and say,

    “That was the winter I _______.”

    Yes, I know there’s a blank. Were you hoping I’d fill that in for you? I know I’m over here reflecting out loud with you, but your blank is your blank to fill in (she said with love), so I’ll just leave it open, like an invitation.

    But you know what say to fill in my blank if I were a betting woman? (Ooooooo! Pick me, pick me! This is where I’d remind you of Horshack on Welcome Back, Kotter…remember that!?)

    “That was the winter I learned how to winter.”

    Seriously, I feel like I’m obsessed with winter lately, and that’s just so….different for me. I’ve written about my relationship to winter before and how I’ve dreaded it, tolerated it, mocked it, kvetched about it, tried to grin and bear it…but now?

    Something in me is going all honeybadger on winter, hunting down every morsel of nourishment it offers, and learning how to be with this season as if I’m experiencing it for the first time.

    Exhibit A: I am keenly aware of my roots right now.

    In fact, I got a root canal this past Tuesday—a fun way to round out a holiday weekend! But before you click reply (because you know I love when you do…) and wish me all the best on my molar, let me tell you how excited I was for it.

    In fact, I woke up that morning and said to my husband, “I have never wanted a root canal more badly…”

    The week before I got a new iPhone and joked that migrating all that data and sim-card shizzle from my old phone to my new phone would prove to be more painful than the root canal I had scheduled for the following week. And it kinda was.

    But when I got in that chair on Tuesday I started weeping—it was not out of fear or anxiety, but relief, as I’d been feeling like something was going on for two years, but everyone kept telling me I was fine.

    Turns out I wasn’t fine. Or at least my root wasn’t—it was doing its damndest to survive on top of an abscess.

    Do you see what I’m getting at here?

    It’s hard for roots to be nourished if the soil they’re planted in is sick and tired?

    I used to have this client who told me to watch for her to tear up because that’s where she was closest to her truth.

    The truth in my tears this past Tuesday was that I was proud of my unrelenting advocacy for something that didn’t feel quite right in my body.

    The truth was that I had finally “gotten to the root” of the matter and was relieved that the healing could now begin in earnest.

    I came home that afternoon and got a text from a client, thanking me for a book I had apparently recommended to her. She said she was loving it. The book?

    Exhibit B: Rooted.

    I kid you not. The irony…

    I made a note to buy the book (which was new to me), settled in with my numbed mouth and my new favorite, Wintering by Katherine May, and happened upon this passage:

    “Wintering brings some of the most profound and insightful moments of our human experience, and wisdom resides in those who have wintered. In our relentlessly busy contemporary world, we are forever trying to defer the onset of winter. We don’t ever dare to feel its full bite, and we don’t dare to show the way that it ravages us. An occasional sharp wintering would do us good….we must stop trying to ignore them or dispose of them. They are real, and they are asking something of us. We must learn to invite the winter in. We may never choose to winter, but we can choose how.”

    So my question for you is this, my friend.

    How have you invited winter into your roots?

    And if you come up empty on that one, here’s another one to try:

    How would you like to fill in your ________ this winter?

    The winter is still young, you’ve got time.

    In the meantime, I’m over here, sending you loads of love and a glowing hot coal for your fire.

    ————————————

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    The Invitation of Spring Equinox

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    Blooming trees in spring - Photo by LuAnn Hunt on Unsplash

    Change is in the air and it’s building toward a crescendo as we roll toward another equinox on March 20 (sidenote: don’t you feel like the solstices get all the glory?).

    For me, the equinoxes are where sh*t gets interesting with a crackling energy that is sometimes hard, sometimes exciting, and sometimes both in the same moment.  Blooming trees in spring - Photo by LuAnn Hunt on Unsplash

    I always think of what crocuses must feel like as they break through the crusty soil each year. No one tills the ground for them or lovingly prepares their garden bed (at least no one I know). I imagine the tenacity, grit, and determination a crocus must possess to burst through the soil.

    That’s you, my friend. #crocusesunite

    So here’s a random question for you as we get closer to the spring equinox.

    If you encountered yourself on a crowded street, at a party, or even a meeting…would you recognize yourself as you?

    If I’m honest, my own answer to that question is most likely no—I probably wouldn’t. Does that surprise you? I have the evidence to prove it that I’ll tell you about in a second.

    But before we go there, here are a few more questions to consider:

    • Do you think a caterpillar recognizes itself when it comes out of its cocoon? Does it think, “Hey, I’m a caterpillar who can fly now!”
    • When a tadpole starts to sprout legs and then hop out of the water, does it wonder what happened to its little tail and panic about its ability to breathe on land?
    • When a baby starts to eat food with a spoon, do you think it thinks “What the hell is wrong with me…why am I doing this?”
    • When the shoreline of the coast changes, do the waves go “WTF is this?”

    In the coaching world, it’s quite common to hear the word “transformation” being used, and I tend to roll my eyes when I hear it. That term is a bit of a sacred cow in the self-help/personal growth industry—so if you’re feeling any resistance or annoyance at me saying that out loud, I get it.

    The idea that we need transformation—and the quest that inevitably ensues from it—keeps the wheels on the bus going round and round. The promise of transformation sells.

    You won’t hear me use that term. It works just fine for many people, but for whatever reason, I can’t say it with a straight face. It feels like it comes with a dramatic sound effect—a slow moan of awe like “Oooooooooh!…a transformation!”

    And yet. There are those moments (sometimes seasons) of change we move through that feel particularly full of friction and wildly different, sometimes terrifying. I feel them most around the equinoxes when we enter the transition to the winter or summer. I imagine this is what astronauts must feel when their little space machines re-enter the earth’s atmosphere.

    Things start to vibrate—sometimes a heat tile comes off.
    Things can feel out of control.
    Things are happening—with or without your permission.

    Nature is taking its course.
    Gravity is doing its work.

    Recently, I’ve been playing with the idea of evolution, rather than transformation.

    Evolution feels more organic, natural, and almost invisible to the human eye.
    It feels humble in its ordinariness, not loud and filled with fanfare because it’s extra-special.

    Evolution feels like an unfolding or an unfurling over time, rather than a big reveal in a moment.

    Transformation makes me think of those weird plastic toys my boys used to play with when they were little—the ones that could be wrenched, twisted, and manipulated into different shapes at will, from a car to a boat, to warrior with a jet pack.

    Transformation makes me wince and brace for something sudden to happen. Do I want it? Did I ask for it? Will it be better—or worse? Do I have a choice or a vote?

    Evolution makes me trust in the natural unfolding of things—and get curious. I start to notice and wonder, gathering insights and taking in data as I go. I feel alive— like I’m an active participant.

    Why does any of this matter?

    Because equinoxes are about transition. And transition is where we evolve—and change in ways we might not even recognize until much, much, later.

    It’s powerful to know ourselves, right!? But what if we can’t see ourselves?

    I’m not talking about blind spots or lack of self-awareness. I’m talking about being so present to your life as it’s evolving, that you haven’t really recognized the fact you’ve sprouted butterfly wings or grown frog legs—or that the shape of your entire coastline has changed.

    There was a time I came upon a bunch of women talking animatedly about this other woman they knew and admired. She sounded fascinating. She sounded super cool. She sounded amazing. Unable to contain myself, I asked them who this woman was because I was quite certain I wanted to know her. Clearly we’d be instant friends.

    That’s when they told me the woman they were talking about…was me.

    I was instantly mortified by two things 1) I hadn’t recognized myself, even when described in great detail, and 2) I had been publicly witnessed falling in love with myself.

    I swore I never wanted to have that sensation again. I promised myself I’d do better to pay attention—to see myself more clearly—enough to recognize myself in a crowd.

    But the thing about evolution is this: sometimes you don’t know it’s happening. And when it does, you’re too busy flying with new wings or hopping around to care about what just happened.

    That’s why it’s so important to have people in your life that SEE YOU. They don’t need to get you, understand you, related to you or even agree with you—but they are trusted witnesses to your evolution.

    So who are your people?

    Do they know the important role they play in your life? Have you told them? Do you trust their vision to see you clearly—to help you celebrate when you’ve sprung a new leaf or grown out of an old shell?

    Ask them this: what do you see when you look at me?

    You’re not giving away your power. You’re borrowing their lens for a moment.

    It’s how a comet—or a crocus—can see its own evolution more clearly.

    ————————————

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    Receiving the Gift of Feminine Energy

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    Finch sitting on roof of front porch.

    A little over a week ago, a small finch moved in with us.

    Well, not really, IN in, but pretty damn close.Finch sitting on roof of front porch.

    We came home one night and noticed a tail feather in the corner of our side porch eaves. There’s not a lot of space in which to perch, so this was quite a feat—a noteworthy and curious accomplishment.

    In the morning, the bird was gone.

    When we came home that night, the bird was back, eyeing us from behind a random nail lodged in the corner to support a string of lights we had used long ago.

    On the third day we named the bird Larry—after Larry Bird, of course.

    On the fourth day my youngest son started to chronicle Larry’s residence on his SnapChat feed (LarryBird Day4…) shared among the neighborhood kids on our street—all of whom embraced Larry as their own.

    Animals—especially the feathered ones—are often messages sent directly to us from the spirit world. And kids, pure spirits as they are, tend to be the ones to bring them to our attention.

    That’s the power of the divine feminine at work—it’s all around us if you know to look for it.

    So on the fifth day, I Googled the significance of a finch, and learned our little bird visitor was an “omen of joy”, suggesting peace, freedom and positive changes are just around the corner.

    I also learned that Larry was, in fact, a female—but we decided to keep her name, with a nod to Johnny Cash’s song A Boy Named Sue.

    All of this felt significant because the entire week my little family had been holding its breath waiting for test results from a biopsy I’d had to determine if I had uterine cancer.

    Every night I would look at Larry and Larry would look at me.

    Was Larry a sign? Was this wishful thinking? Was this my imagination?

    Could I dare to hope that all would be well, even though it didn’t look good? Could this little bird be here for me?

    I mean why else would you spend the night sleeping in a cramped corner, crouched around a nail, fluffed up and barely protected from the elements?

    Have you ever had those moments of angsty waiting where desperate desires and fervent prayers in your body swirl with the chaos in your mind?

    Doesn’t that feel like the space where so many of us are these days—trying to grab a few blessed minutes of shut eye, finding a bit of peace next to a random nail in the corner of a life—nearly 3 years into a pandemic, in the midst of an existential crisis, with a divided nation, a faltering economy, a sick and tired populous, the days getting darker and darker?

    Silent night….holy night….
    Amazing grace….how sweet the sound….
    Oh come, all ye faithful….joyful and triumphant….

    The call came last night from my midwife, fifteen minutes before five women would be arriving at my candlelit office to explore the topic of the feminine in the second gathering of my On Being a Woman circle.

    Her voice was loud and clear: “Good news, Lael. We didn’t see any cancer.”

    And while she went on to talk about next steps and I lit more candles for the gathering, I thought of Larry bird—and how s/he had been a feathered candle burning on the alter of my soul as we approach the darkest night of winter next week.

    It takes courage to have faith.
    It takes some shelter to keep a candle lit.
    It takes a village to make life holy (wholly).

    As we sat in our circle of women last night, we listened to a live version of Amazing Grace, sung in four-part harmony by women. I asked them to silently and energetically invite all the women in their lives—and our world—into our circle to join us.

    I invited my late sister-in-law, Grace. My two nieces. My son’s girlfriend. And Larry.

    This is what women know how to do intuitively in these times—gather in circles, witness each other, and sit with all that is unknown, messy, hard, and much bigger than us.

    We allow ourselves to be held—and we hold the space for others to do the same.

    This is how we can lead.

    Midwives know it. Hospice workers know it. Anyone in recovery attending AA meetings knows it.

    But do you know it? Do you see the capacity you have inside you? And if you do, do you use it—or do you wait for someone else to do it first…to make it more comfortable, safe, familiar?

    Because I will tell you in all honesty: the only thing that makes it more comfortable, safe and familiar is practice. Lots and lots of us practicing.

    How does leading with feminine energy look? Embodiment.

    Which is good news because you if you’re reading this, you have a body—which means you have everything you need. No excuses.

    Author Kelly Corrigan talks about this beautifully in her toast she put on YouTube entitled Transcending: Words on Women and Strength, bringing to light that “lean and catch” thing women do for each other.

    I watch this at least once a year to remember—because we are trained to forget this power we have. That we can use.

    Especially in the heart of winter, the heart of the feminine—when things feel closest to the bone, tenuous, and vulnerable.

    Leadership can be as blessedly simple—and powerful—as allowing feminine energy to course through our bodies.

    I brought this into my circle of women I gathered that night—as a way for us to remember this innate power can we bring to leadership, often because we’re given more license to use it than our male counterparts are.

    “The great work of our time is to bring the feminine into this culture”

    —Marion Woodman—

    Jungian analyst Marion Woodman speaks about so beautifully in an interview by Oprah on women and power—the only way to understand the feminine, she says, is to experience it.

    Get it in your bones. Remember, again and again.

    The heart of winter? That’s prime-time for the feminine to take center stage.

    It’s why we like to gather by fires with loved ones, snuggle, and talk in hushed voices.

    In my circle, I told the story of how I imagine the wheel of the year (for those of us living in the Northern Hemisphere) turning in my mind’s eye—a visual inspired by my days running the 4×400 meter relay in track where the baton was passed between runners for each leg of the journey.

    At Summer Solstice (June 21), the Sun hands the baton to the Moon, and leadership is powered by lunar (feminine) energy through the summer and into the fall until the days gradually get darker and darker, leaves and flowers fall away, things get closer to the dirt, and we (animals, people and sap) retreat inside and underground.

    Where truth lives.
    Where wisdom can be found.
    Where our soul voice lives.
    Where the seeds and medicine take root.

    Until Winter Solstice (December 21), when the Moon hands off the baton to the Sun, and leadership is transferred to solar (masculine) energy, darkness recedes as our days grow longer, new growth breaks through our soil in response to the light, and we (animals, people and plants) emerge from the cave and reveal ourselves above ground.

    Around and around we go.

    So as we approach this home stretch—the final push from the dark womb of the year—with Winter Solstice coming up next week on December 21st, I’m casting around with candlelight for some last bits of truth and wisdom, insights and whisperings in my soul.

    I don’t need to see what they are to know they matter—that’s trust.
    I don’t need to believe they are real to know they are true—that’s intuition.
    I don’t need to understand what to do to know how to be—that’s wisdom.

    So here’s to the power of the feminine to help us see our way forward in the dark.

    Here’s to the the dance between the sun and the moon that happens without us—for us.

    And here’s to a bird named Larry—who quietly held vigil on my porch through it all.

    ————————————

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