I have a really, really hard time remembering my childhood. When I reflect back, there are the highlight reels, and the lowlight reels, but distinct memories are hard to recall on command. I think that part of that is protective.
Always coming back to this work. And it is funny, I never resonated with doing "the work" until recently, but realize it is a never ending process. That work doesn't mean there is a completion date. I think the finality of school as a learning environment truly skewed my perception of conceptual learning.
But none of that will happen without the selection of a lane. A choice to commit to a priority that resonates with my values and my beliefs. A library of choice is useless without action. When I travelled last week, my choices were whittled down and my actions were clear. I felt accomplished because I had focus.
Seasons are shifting… did you know it is fall?
Caught me by surprise too.
There are the seasons that correspond to the weather, but then there are seasons in life. This season? I’m just treading the water.
Have you ever felt that hot, hot heat in the pit of your belly, raging a fire as a last advance notice that what you are doing is so, so very wrongwrongwrong?
That your instinctual nature is at odds with the pragmatic experience that is your life, and despite all attempts at internal cajoling, you in a place that will certainly not satisfy you?
If someone were to ask me today how I'm doing, and had approximately one hour to kill, I'd have quite the download for them. I've been reflecting on the last year and what it has meant to me, how I've shown up, and what I keep pushing down...
One of the old habits I used to shrug on, as easily as an old coat, was unproductive, stressed-out worrying. Often tied to work, I would future trip, running worst-case scenarios that ultimately ended with me being fired, demoted or any other myriad of unlikely events.
My thought patterns would snowball into the most negative of potential outcomes, usually manifesting physically with an elevated heart rate, headache or the worst- sweating. Try walking into a performance review after you’ve mentally already fired yourself and are sweaty, to boot.
I have something to share. A secret. Something that has to do with wine. And puffy coats. And high-waisted skirts. And burritos.
I went to my first yoga class in my second year of university. I had never been to any sort of yoga class before, but I was definitely yoga-curious. The little I knew about yoga intrigued me—it was just so different from anything I’d done before, filled with history and culture from a time and place that I knew nothing about. I hadn’t grown up in a religious household—we did the Hallmark holidays, but nothing other than that—and so yoga seemed to hold some sort of reverence that was entirely new...