The Sacred Pause (3.9.17)
I would not say that I was, “born ready,” as a mother. I came into this journey with buckets of tenderness and a deep desire to get it right. But I was in no way prepared for the profound number of layers that I would need to pull back, the conditioning of so many generations I would need to shed and the depths of love I would have to unearth to become the person I've—on most days—come to be, both with my children and with myself. Because, you see, there is a deep correlation between the two. The way that we are with others is intricately woven with the way that we are with ourselves. The unfolding of this path did not happen over night. I don’t know when it happened, exactly. Somewhere between the despair of a car seat struggle gone deeply awry and the arrival at the breathtaking realization that my children were not somehow born flawed or wrong, too-loud, too shy or not developing the way that they should—and neither was I, any of those things.
Looking back, I can see that it was the repeated turning to spaciousness, to the breath—to the sacred pause—that has been my faithful guide. It was in—and it continues to be in—those spaces that I came to connect with a truer way of seeing. In those spaces, I discovered solutions that I hadn’t thought of. No one had to be wrong. There was greater compassion in those spaces, forgiveness for my children, forgiveness for myself. I found that time didn’t matter so, so much. And neither did what other people might be thinking of me. I’m too hard on them, on me. Too soft. I give too much, not enough. It was in those spaces—despite their expansiveness— that I discovered the astonishing brevity of life. I saw how fleeting it all is and how precious these times really are. It was in patiently tying a shoe for the 100th time, the calm intervention in a sibling squabble, it was in the mistakes too. My heart opened more fully and love poured through me more generously because of the thousand upon thousand little present moments of awareness that added up to something very big.
International Women’s Day (3.8.17)
There is ample reason to point out that women are as capable as men. We can do math. We can create art and music and laughter. We can run and tackle and climb. We can work construction, be on the front-lines and fix your plumbing. We can love other women and raise children on our own. We can make scientific discoveries and invent things and make loads of money. We can speak up and be heard and march and teach. We can lead. We can heal you and ourselves. We can do all of these things and more. And yet, there must be a reason women came to life—and there is no denying it—differently than men. There must be a reason for the struggle and the privilege to birth new life—new thought—to have had to claw our way up out of an idea that we were somehow less adept at living and to be seen as capable of voting and holding jobs and having control over our own bodies and minds.
There are as many ways to identify as a woman as there are women. We are not to be boxed in. That would be contrary to our very nature—creative, and expansive and divine. Let us celebrate today those many ways that we go about the world making our mark differently. Let us remember the cellular make-up of the feminine experience and let us encourage our valuable men, too, to discover the existence of these qualities within themselves so that they might better see and understand our real place—not in the kitchen—though many of us give and thrive beautifully there—but on the global stage where we can do our part to bring to life less war, less famine, greater equality and a more cohesive planet for all. This is not a competition. We—the magnificent women of this world—are a critical component in the global equation for PEACE and EQUALITY for ALL.
Study Them Now (3.7.17)
There was a time when I would write and my boys were still babes with chubby thighs and basic needs to be met. I would tiptoe from their rooms while they drifted into slumber, coming and telling about breathing through troubles and slowing my pace so that they might show me this magical world. Their arms and their legs have since lengthened along with their minds’ expansion and I find myself with a mantra pulsing through me like a heartbeat, “study them now!” “Study them now,” shouts the heart as I sense the momentum of their being growing and transforming them exponentially. When they come near, I give them my gaze – the mail, the cooking, the great aspirations – these things can wait. “Let me pick you up while I still can,” I say to my biggest boy, gathering up his lankly body into mine and holding him near.
#StudyThemNow #GrowingLikeWeeds #StopTheTrain #MindfulMothering #SacredTimes #Mother’sMeditation
River of Luminosity (3.6.17)
My ankle is on ice today, forced by a heavy log falling to temper my feverish pace to create. I’ve got a woman draped over a globe in the works, photos on my computer gone-missing, now found. There is an energy to be shaken up and separated so that I might get a glimpse of the angels in my midst. They say there really are no walls, no doors between us, and I believe them. Especially in the quiet, now, I can notice the humming of heaven beneath the purr of the heater, the purr of my cat. I know that more is there. I am thinking about what it means to my boys when I lock eyes with them in the purposeful act of intended listening. I don’t just hear their stories meandering like the delightful brook streams that they are, but I notice, too, the way our energies line up just right and I can almost hear the whoosh of connection between us. I notice that they are delighted by the light as well when I find myself really, really there and so we linger with our eyes and with their stories and with this river of luminosity flowing between us.
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You Are Not Your Shoes (2.14.17)
You are not your shoes. Your are not whether they were lent to you or if they are new, or borrowed or stolen. You are not how well they fit or whether or not they are in style. Look down at those shoes, shiny or dull. Your are not those shoes. You are not your hair. You are not whether it is clean or soiled, long or shaven. You are not whether it is itchy or silky or falling out. You are not its texture or color or whether you have had a real haircut in a long while. You are not your hair. You are not your nails, either. Painted or plain, in need of trimming. Lined with dirt, rounded and buffed, sharp. You are not your nails. You are not your clothing. You are not whether or not you have a place to wash what you wear. You are not the way your clothing fits or the shape of it or whether it has been worn by someone else before you. You are not the amount of money that was spent on your clothing, no matter how much. You are not your clothing any more than a pearl is the shell in which it dwells. You are not even, really, your body all together with its feet and hair and nails and clothing. Round, thin, worn out, confused, strong, addicted, sober. None of this is you. You. Oh, You. You are so much more than all of these layers. When these things—these seemingly important things—fall away from you—from us all—that, that is You. You are the still and the quiet that remains deep within the well of you. You are the prayer said in the night, whispered again at dawn’s light. You are the essence that came here first as a baby, fresh and new. That. That is still You. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done or where you’ve been or whether or not you can remember. It is there. You are unlike any other and that is good. You matter. You matter to Us and You matter to the world. There is still good in this complicated place. There is good and it is alive and flowing as we all make our way through the interwoven nature of life’s unfolding. You are colorful and you are important to the web that connects us all. We need You. And it is ok if you need Us too.
#ShouldBeNike’sTagline #YouAreNotYourShoes #whoareyou #NoneOfThisIsYou #MeghanNathanson #LivingYoga #Meditation #Oneness
Let You Be Glad (3.25.16)
For you, let the roots in me grow deep and sturdy as a mint plant gone wild in my garden bed boldly. Let my love be relentless, taking root as immoveable, tangled stems of strength not to be untwined. Let my mind be sharp like rose thorns—peaked attention ready for the word of the divine, received without question—clear as the prick of brambles through soil stained gloves. Let my presence matter like the
Spring gusts of wind that come, “I’m here!” “I’m here!” Let you be glad I am here. Let forgiveness live in me abundantly—pardons no fewer than the one thousand acorns released from Oak tree’s embrace. Let me be serene and yielding as the tides, responding always to the seasons of you, harmonious in my letting in and letting out of the cosmic flow of you. And let me most warm you like the near Spring sun after a lengthy Winter sun’s distance and darkness have lingered.
“Orange—I’ve decided—is the color of the soothing of souls. It is the color of warmth and comfort, of holding and forgiving. It is the color of new-beginnings—like green can be. Orange was Adrian’s 3rd-year favorite color, behind red and “lellow.” It’s funny, I’ve never before been drawn to the color orange like I am in this season. Now, I take it in with my eyes—with my whole body—like an elixir, soaking it up in the setting sun, in the images I work with, in the ember glow of a wood stove fire on an icy cold day. Our walls are grey, but—orange—orange is present when we come back into our home in the afternoons. It’s in our play. I feel orange in the preparation of a hot meal and the endless coloring, puzzle making and reading of books. Orange is Adrian licking the peanut butter and jelly off of his bread as I look on. It’s Jonah telling me a very long story at bedtime in a whisper—his voice still high and lilted—giggling out into the night air. Orange is cradling my heart—making it hardy—as I sift through old ways winnowing out what is worth keeping and discovering what must go.”
New Year, New Breath (1.1.16)
“It doesn’t matter where you have been. It doesn’t matter where you are going. It doesn’t matter who you have been traveling with. Or whether you have been traveling alone. It doesn’t matter if you are well loved or love many. It doesn’t matter if you are bitter or afraid or longing. It doesn’t matter if you are falling apart or holding it all together. It doesn’t matter if you look beautiful or flawed or what size you are or whether or not your body has been working well. It doesn’t matter your age. There in your breath—this very first conscious breath of the New Year—is a revelation of peace and pace, rhythm, and the sumptuous nectar of living. It is both ancient and brand-new, mighty and gentle. There in your breath is your beloved. Follow it just as closely as you may. Notice its inception in your belly—wide and expansive. Notice how it propels upward, broadening your chest, your shoulders widening—neck lengthening, back opening. Notice the nourishment of your brain as you reach the very, very peak of your breath. Remaining there—ever so briefly—absorbing the cool cleansing of your mind, the vigorous unleashing of your heart. And just as you notice your lungs having reached their fill, allow for the exhale to flood forward, washing over you layer by layer by every-single-layer—shedding and releasing the brittle and the rigid, shedding and releasing the harsh and the cruel. Follow your breath—like an expanding and contracting wave—into the New Year, into the truth of you. Let your breath envelop you in every step—filling you up with its luscious bounty—and let it be your tender guide.”
“This day, this luscious, ordinary day stride—no leap, leap as fiercely as you may— through the dense cloaks of ancient distortions. Shed your crumbling veneers layer by layer by every-single-barren layer. And with each stratum dismantled, call out those gross untruths that you’ve been shouting at your poor, contemptible self. And in your exquisite undress—pink and salty, graced with dew—discover the delicate babe unguarded and safe within an enchanted land. Banished are the endless, bitter judgements, gone are the multitude of musts. Even your bones begin pulsing a testimony to the priceless singularity of your offerings. Here remains—the naturalness of an animal, the purity of a child, the wisdom of a tree, the significance of a beloved spec of sand. You. You are a sage. “
Morning Ritual (10.10.15)
“Arise early while darkness lingers. Shuffle about in preparation for the dawn. Strike a flame of reverence and then switch on your very own inner beacon—an heir to daylight’s quiet arrival. Sipping something warm, pour out your gratitudes, allowing your luminescence to swell in you, rising your thoughts upward for your day’s quest. Allow whispers forth and listen for the outward stretching of your soul’s expansion. I am here. I am here.”
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