This is where I share with you, the contents of my heart and soul. What I'm learning, discovering, dreaming, doing.
I’m choosing to celebrate ‘Blue Monday’, by releasing three things:
Welcome to my box of emotional crayons, pilgrim. All colours are welcome here.
I propose a revolution. How about we stop demonising the very normal state of dreariness, that inevitably arrives after all the fun has been had.
I'm celebrating Blue Monday by continuing the work of learning to show up as and for myself, without shame and even when it's the last thing I want to do.
Toward the end of every year, I facilitate for myself, a kind of spiritual retreat. I create for myself an abundance of time and space for self reflection.
My biggest learnings almost always point me back to my relationship with myself. Was I truthful? Was I compassionate? Was I courageous? Was I kind?
In other words, how well did I care for me?
Grief is a very powerful emotion, one that can easily overwhelm and take us away from ourselves.
With it, can come a restless and unnerving 'I don't know what to do with myself' state of being, as articulated here by the Author CS Lewis in his book 'A Grief Observed'.
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing."
A ritual is a sequence of activities involving gestures, words, and objects, performed in a sequestered place and according to set sequence and can be employed to neutralise or prevent anxiety.
Rituals help ground and anchor us. They can give us a sense of place and space.
Many cultures have sacred grief rituals, the function of which is to help us process our losses, yet nobody teaches us how to mourn in anticipation of our inevitable need for a repertoire.
To lean in, tend and give expression...
Recently, I was being lulled to sleep by the rain at my window and in that mid state, I became aware of some words that landed on me with the lightness of a butterfly.
My first inclination was to disregard them in favour of the state into which I was melting. After all, I hadn’t been consciously looking for words that day.
So I ignored my poetic butterfly, but it wasn’t going anywhere.
Instead it lingered, flapping its wings and scalding me out of my semi conscious state until got up and wrote the words down.
The next morning, I awoke to find my notebook open on the bedside locker and the sentence written down inside the cover.
"The door for me is opened,
the question of the way is kind.
Trust the open door."
I was amused by it’s cryptic nature though its meaning wasn’t immediately apparent to me. Later that day as I was pottering about my studio, I realised I had been doodling door like structures all week. How interesting. There...