My day has been full. I awoke early and got on the rower by 6:30. That may not happen again for a while, but I was glad to start my day with that much sweat. And a purely physical focus. It did change the tone for the day. I will need to experiment with this some more. Just not this week.

Today was amazing in so many ways. I had a great conversation at lunch. One piece of it that moved me deeply was that I was able to reference the questions that I have been cultivating here in my writing as I was sharing what I had been up to. Three weeks deep into this writing practice and I am just starting to feel it as a part of what I do. It is starting to reverberate beyond this space into my life.

In fact, in only 10 short days March will be April and I am curious about what a new month will invite in terms of my writing. A pause? A new tone or direction of focus? Writing in another language? That answer is firmly in the realm of a second or third step. I will stay close in for the moment and not try to use anticipation of what’s next to mask that I am not sure what to say now.

How we wake has such an incredible effect on how we carry ourselves throughout the day. But right now I’m tired. I just want to think of something inspirational to drop on you all and say “peace out” and go to sleep.

I’ll just settle for a wish of peace for you all…

I’ve just been leafing through an old notebook from my studies in Zimbabwe in 1994. Chicken scratch and scrawling images of experiences almost out of reach of my memory woven between moments that I will never forget. Journal entries were filed between lecture notes so the cadence of the pages changed with the candor and the content.

It was a very interesting rhythm to move from academic inquiry into the social and economic implications of The World Bank’s Economic Structural Adjustment Policy to the different levels of fear and excitement of a night spent in an underground speakeasy in the back alleys of Harare. I was embroiled in trying to deconstruct the social, geopolitical, and historical impediments and implications of equality, civil war and national redevelopment in Southern Africa while negotiating very personal tender moments facing racial and gender bias as it pertained to my ability to take care of and know myself and my humanity more deeply.

I’ll never be grateful enough for that journey.

There was a moment, lost in that old journal, where I found myself trying to forget where I am right now. Conjuring all of the power of my memory and cryptic clues from poorly written poems, and detailed lecture notes, I searched for smells and sounds and textures. I wanted to remember these moments in my body. And it started to happen.

I remembered the skittering sounds of nocturnal creatures after lost in the Chimanimani mountains that forced us to sleep in a cave as the night had taken away signs of a trail home not knowing if I would find it the next day. I remembered the taste of meat just off the fire washed down with cold lager among a circle of men hearing stories of war realizing that I knew nothing of bravery. I remembered the feeling of sweating from the work of breathing standing in the shade of a tree on a 104 degree morning watching women, on their second trip, carry their firewood, children and the day’s water 5 kilometers each way to the nearest pump, and realizing that I knew nothing of the meaning of hard work. I remembered the shade of purple of the Jacaranda trees lining the streets of Harare knowing that I had never seen such a perfect purple. I remembered so many things, but then my head began to throb.

I was spending too much time conjuring the past. I was stuck in the memories not allowing their song to echo forward to now. This young man in Southern Africa is one of the ancestors of the person I am becoming. By isolating this experience in the past I limited his connection to my current practice. I am so grateful for my memory to keep him alive, but it cannot come at the cost of his voice not being a part of the conversation I am having today to help inform the invitations I offer the world tomorrow.

How can I listen intently to past experiences while staying grounded in the present? How do I keep nostalgia from becoming stagnant from too much looking back? What part of the retelling of my adventures holds truth?

So my astrology friend say that we are on the eve of a big change. We are about to pass through the Spring Equinox, halfway between Winter and Summer. There is something about this being an auspicious time to settle matters of spirit and prepare for a coming season of engagement. I am still feeling a bit unsettled. I am, however, involved with the unsettling feelings in a much different way than even a few months ago. Dare I say that I am maturing?

Blech. I want to spit it out as it forms on my tongue. This is not a word that I have a comfortable relationship with. I have often had an aversion to maturity as my belief was that it signaled the loss of something.

But in the last few weeks the invitation to accompany myself, truly accompany myself, in my decisions and relationships and experiences is building a new capacity for not only understanding myself, but sharing it with others. Is there a maturity to that?

I’m going to need a hand with this one, folks. This is an edge for me. I don’t know what it means to be mature. There is a bit of judgment already bubbling up after that declaration. I will foray a bit deeper…but I am going to call in some reinforcements.

Our favorite poet, raised in the hills of that place where the pudding comes from has a powerful handle on his understanding of maturity:

He writes that maturity, “is the ability to live fully and equally in multiple contexts”. He continues with, “Maturity is not a static arrived platform, where life is viewed from a calm, untouched oasis of wisdom, but a living elemental frontier between what has happened, what is happening now and the consequences of that past and present; first imagined and the lived into the waiting future.” If it stays dynamic I could maybe be ok with that. It certainly tastes better that the loss sandwich that I have been serving myself thus far.

Today I went to a memorial service for the father of a friend. Dozens of voices from all the chapters of his past shared stories that stretched from the absurd to the generous. What blew me away was that as a childhood friend talked about Larry’s outrageous behavior, they would use the same perfect adjectives that I would have used to describe evenings of debauchery parading down Frenchman St. When people talked about his fidelity and constancy as a deeply trusted friend and ally, I saw clearly my own experiences with him and his generosity with his full attention whenever we spoke.

He was loved deeply by everyone there, and he loved his friends and family with a tenacity and vigor that was unparalleled in everyone’s estimation. The way that he left the same imprint on his friends and family, new and old, speaks to me of shades of the kind of maturity that I quoted from David. In all the contexts of his life, he lived fully.

What are the ways you have matured in your life? How do you feel about it? Do we lose one thing and gain another as we mature? Or perhaps it’s not about the tally at all?

I’m high above my desk circling my keyboard with no clarity about where to land and tap out this message to you all tonight. I drift closer and then catch a shadow of something out of the corner of my eye and dash off to inspect a page or two a book that might give some spark to write.

Ann Lamott just told me that I should, “…hold an imaginary gun to your head and make yourself stay at the desk.” Ok Ann, I’m still here, but not ready yet. I think I’ll take another circle around the edges. I’m near the desk, that’s gotta count for something right?

I’m going to ask Mr. Rogers. “My hope for all of us is that ‘the miles we go before we sleep’ will be filled with all the feelings of deep caring- delight, sadness, joy, wisdom – and in all the endings of our life, we will be able to see the new beginnings.” Now were cooking. I’m here Mr. Rogers. It’s a good feeling to know I’m alive. I remember your songs as some of the greatest invitations of my childhood. “Won’t you please, won’t you please? Please won’t you be, my neighbor?”

Yes, I would love to. I’ve never met a kid that didn’t want that. That’s the point. His message was constantly one of hope, possibility, imagination. He spoke to a deep human need for connection and collectivity in all of us. He surrounded himself in his real and ‘make believe’ world with friends and newcomers who were always welcomed with open arms and a genuine curiosity.

Yes, yes, dear internal cynic, I get that it was a format, a program designed to teach, but so what? The format was based on ancient truths and aspirations: “Real strength has to do with helping others” and “No matter how old we are, we need to know that the people who are important to us really do care about us” and “Discovering the truth about ourselves is a lifetime’s work, but its worth the effort”.

The messenger, Fred Rogers, gave his every effort in such a profound and authentic way. His delivery had a transcendent quality, and his his artistry was shared in the form of the most beautiful questions. He was always asking, and always sharing his appreciation in the wonderful neighborhood he and we were all a part of.

So I’ll take my cue tonight from a hero of my childhood.

How are you tonight, friends? I am often left speechless, and need to stop what I’m doing when I reflect on the beautiful way each one of you shapes my life.

What is unfolding for you on your own paths of self discovery? I know for me having each of you there as I am diving deeper and listening closer gives me so much strength and hope.

What does it feel like when it gets hard to see the way forward? I just want you all to know that I am here for each of you, in what ever way I can.

Good night, neighbor.

I changed my mind today.

While that was hard to do, it’s really hard to write about here.

In general I don’t like to choose. To a fault perhaps, I avoid making choices if I have to. But when I do choose, I stick to it. I can be trusted. I will carry the burden because I said I would.

The martyr in all of this, does however, tend to build dramatic blinders that don’t only keep my eyes going in one direction, but my thoughts. If I divert there is a head full of negative self-judgment hurled in my direction in the hopes to keep me on track with my choices.

Today has been about the power of my body chiming, no perhaps shouting, into my conversation about a choice I had previously made. Today I used faculties other than my head to interrupt the judgment and doubt. I was invited to look honestly at my historical patterns, and to ask the beautiful question, “What would it feel like to change your mind on this?”

I was dragged through a sleepless night last night until at 5:00 this morning I sat straight up in bed gripped with the deepest feeling of resistance. My chest was tight, my hands were balled into fists, and I felt a sense of regret and questioning about my choice. The only words that would come to me were, “This is not the right time”. So a few deep breaths later, well maybe more than a few, I could decipher that cryptic message into a much clearer one, “You need to change your mind”. Well now I was stuck. I couldn’t avoid this. This was an old voice, one that I haven’t been paying enough attention to.

The choice I was really struggling with was not between the great option or the other great option, but the choice of which voice to follow. This work, this becoming, has challenged me to start listening to different voices. It has challenged me to feel for different cues. This work has challenged me to do it all a bit differently than I have done it in the past and pay attention to the quality of the different results.

I’m hurting today because I still don’t know if I got it right. I never will. Practicing becoming, and paying attention to my inheritances is not easy. I’d love to send a note to my future self asking him to thank me for today and to let me know how this was a moment that I was able to build on moving forward. Today was about trusting that neither choice was a wrong one, and neither was more right than the other. It was about listening closely.

But as much as I am staying present and patient with the pain of it, I am holding my self with gratitude and acknowledgement of the bit of bravery I was able to muster in the face of this internal exchange. This is a practice after all, right?

I’m here again, late in the day, but from a very different perspective. What I need is to come to ground for a moment. There are no conversations that need to be stopped, per se. There is plenty of ambient chatter that just needs to be turned down, and a heart that needs to be tuned in. Please indulge me for a moment to lean in to this space of sharing to settle myself a bit.

Winding down. It always requires me to sit down, close my mouth and open my eyes. Then after taking stock of the moment the eyelids give way and I can turn inward. Accompanying deep breaths aid in that process as I settle in more deeply. I can catch a breath and move to my hands. A light or tight squeeze is usually a good barometer of how far I need to go to settle. Either I need to pump them vigorously, or gently, but when I am quieting down I can tell by the tension in my palms. The fingertips of my four finders are pressed softly against the pads of my hand near my wrist and my thumbs lay along each index finger connected by tip to second knuckle.

Then is it just small modulations. I am exploring the edges of firm and loose. I am noticing the space inside of my palm. I pay attention to what that space feels like, the temperature and quality. As I flex and release a myriad of tiny adjustments within my closed hands, it gives my mind a break from the other things demanding attention. I signal myself to allow some more good breaths and quiet my eyes.

Now I am settled enough to explore how I am feeling. I can explore the feelings beneath the reactions throughout the day. I can trace feelings to thoughts through my body. Through the micro pulsations in my hands I can react as I go back over my day. A tense moment can show up, and if I am settled I can trace it. Was I angry? That doesn’t feel right. Was I afraid? The fingers dig into palms and the temperature rises and the air leaves the space in my hands. Ok back it off a bit. Feel into that afraid. And slowly I can build some memory of that feeling.

What I am working on is to develop this as a practice. Over time, with practice, I can use this to gauge my own temperature. Although I’m not sure how great I am at it, again a practice. By building a relationship between emotional states and physical shapes I am able to position myself literally in moments of profound emotion. I am able to recognize feelings building before they overwhelm, and I can savor emotional moments by letting their shapes stay in my body longer.

It all starts by coming to ground, taking a moment, and building from there.

What are the ways that you settle in to grounded moments? How do you connect to feelings rising from within? How to you practice kindness to yourself in the face of hard feelings? How do you savor the sweet ones?

Please excuse me.

I never sat down to write today. I’ve had it in the background of my thoughts while in meetings, on phone calls, doing errands, and now staring at a blank screen and flashing cursor. The writing hasn’t stepped from the background, and now I find myself coaxing it forward. I have taken a run at few opening lines.

“I told a lie today.”

“It’s a strange feeling. I don’t feel like I have any threads to pull.”

“Plumbing always makes me a little nervous.”

“How do we bounce our identities off nothing but faith?”

“The memory of the sun rising out of the sea has almost faded.”

But teasing it isn’t working. I think each of these lines could lead to something rich and interesting, but I am full. I’ll admit that by waiting to the end of the day, my thoughts are competing and have grown louder as I look back on what I’ve done and how I’ve said what I thought I meant today. The place where I have gone these last two weeks to have a conversation with my self somehow eludes me.

I’m not going to force it. I’m here, I showed up. I am so deeply grateful for the permission that I have given myself to follow this edge of this practice. Every day I get a chance to write a little bit about what matters to me, and about who I am becoming.

Today, while technically one could make the argument that I have fulfilled that, I feel that I have fallen short. I’ll admit this is hard for me to write, but taking a moment to sit with the acknowledgement versus forcing something out of fear motivated by guilt feels inauthentic.

This writing practice was not meant to be extemporaneous journaling, but it was also not meant to be finished works of prose. I am going to give myself a time-out. I’m going to admit that I’m not sure what I want to share, and gracefully beg your pardon in order that I may show up again tomorrow.

The morning after is an unpredictable time. After a night filled with dreams about meaning and possibility, I awoke before dawn and sat up in bed. What did I do? Did that really happen? The warmth of the duvet and the sweet memory of dreamtime lay a calming hand on my shoulder and brought me back into the embrace of early morning sleep. The perfect fleeting kind of sleep that you succumb to between those magical 9 minutes of the snooze button.

But no alarm other than my internal clock pushed open my eyes again. Not with music but with questions. What does this mean now? How does this affect such and such? How will you ever do blah blah blah? The thoughts were colluding to turn wakefulness into fearfulness, to take over before I had even begun this beautiful new day.

I understood. I had changed things up on my old ego yesterday. He had been settling in to his time-honored tradition of non-committal ambiguity building through contemplative complexity and fabricated tension. He was feeling like he was back in charge and I took that away from him. I gave him a hug and coaxed him back to sleep. I mean really, the sun wasn’t even up yet. That didn’t last long.

I could see that we were going to have to break the seal on the night’s ephemeral nest and go into the day. Like a puppy seeing a bag of treats, my mind started shooting out all kinds of juicy thoughts with the hopes of getting back in charge of things. Rational arguments gave way to voices feigning deep concern. Reason upon reason to change my mind even tried to use historical precedent to make its case. Though well-crafted with decades old strategy, it could not stand up to a feeling, that had also awoken.

This feeling, emergent from the depth of dreamtime, was ancient. It reverberated at a frequency harmonic to the great moments of my life, moments when I made clear choices. This feeling simply moved me to orient toward the unknown outcome as my north star. It called out a reminder that the truths emerging after a choice, are the truths that have really shaped my life.

This ancient message did not use the shock and awe approach to engagement. There were no trumpets blasting divine revelation in the face of over-intellectualized egoic incapacity and self-judgment. It was strangely gentle. It was firm yet familiar and was an offering not a demand. It was an invitation. I needed just to calm my puppy-mind and allow its voice to continue. So I put the little barking critter in a hot bath and took some deep breaths and opened my heart to listen. As the thoughts calmed and grew quieter, they gave way to memory. They gave way to possibility. They gave way to excitement of being on the leading edge of a life.

What practice can I use to stay in conversation with this ancient voice? What are the ways I can show kindness to my thoughts? How can I honor their value of discernment, but not succumb to their demands or control?

Today I found a yes. I found a resounding yes to a decision that I have had in my balance beams for some time now. This is never an easy place for me, and my history with decision-making has not been great when taking too much time weighing options.

I knew this about myself and even set myself a personal deadline by which to decide. But I let that day pass last week and figured I would give myself another. Well this weekend came and was almost gone when I got a short text asking the beautiful question, “Are you in?”

So right there on the spot, without any hesitation, I reached down into my freshly practiced vulnerable embodied self and said, “Give me another night to think about it?”

Yeah, I sort of chickened out, but it was honest. I didn’t feel ready.

I hadn’t quite mustered the voice to say yea or neigh. I had been weighing, and feeling, and imagining, and writing, and feeling some more. I spent a long time being patient in the company of myself in the feelings of both yes and no. This conversation was the one I needed to stop having. It was time to ask for help. It was time to decide. Through the magic of serendipity, an old friend and trusted advisor of mine happened to be in town and was expecting me for dinner. This felt like visible and invisible help conspiring to come to my service in this moment.

We sat down and it was like time hadn’t passed. We first knew each other after I had come down out of the ivory tower of the university and was determined to engage the world with my hands. I was living on a rural property and was teaching people how to build homes with local materials and alternative methods. I was, literally, elbows deep in shaping my life.

Face to face with this old friend I could recall the feeling of that younger self. I could recall it in my hands. I felt the excitement for adventure and call of curiosity. I told her about the decision that lay before me, and before I finished talking I felt the answer emerge, from my belly. She looked me dead in the eye, and gave voice to what was headed from me toward the light, “Yes, of course. There is no question.”

It felt like fresh water hearing here unequivocal response matching my feeling. Excitement rose and then ebbed and for a moment and there was a pause. She knew, and caught my eye. “Give me your phone. Write the text now.” It was one of the best texts I’ve written:

“No need for anymore sleeps. Hell yes. I’m in.”

It was a little scary and a lot exhilarating. At first I worried that deciding so quickly would somehow diminish all the work that I had done to care for myself in the decision process, but it was the opposite. This was what all that work made space for. So hell yes, I’m in.

Today I am up against a familiar feeling of frustration that grows frantic with grasping for an answer, and is unwilling to trust in the awareness that there just isn’t one in the way I am thinking. In the past, these moments have felt debilitating. They have rocked me into a state of denial, inaction, and ultimately retreat. This is not the kind of regenerative retreat where I am able to renew my feeling of connection to the world and find healing in my heart and body. It’s the kind of retreat when the zombies are coming at me 7 deep and I run screaming for the hills.

I am so grateful for my lizard brain that makes decisions so clearly. It is a pure surge of unadulterated unmitigated choice. Choosing fight or flight has a purity and a simplicity that comes from its most primal and purely biochemical roots and memories.

But right now nothing is trying to eat me, and no one is trying to kill me. So opting to pull the emergency handle is way too extreme and frankly a bit melodramatic. But that’s the point. If I am unwilling to let go of my need to make sense of what is going on, then being theatrical is the only way that I can make sense of things. It’s here that a beautiful question has arisen.

What if I stop making sense?

In the face of confusing and frustrating circumstances, what if I engage the world using different resources? Making sense is another way of saying, “taking control”. As I sit and cultivate the robustness of my own emergent vulnerabilities and direct them toward my developing practice, I am learning that control is an illusion. Shaping my response to the world based on how much sense I can make of it, is kind of like building a house of cards on a foundation of dried leaves. At the very best it is highly fragile and flammable, and really it just doesn’t work.

As I strengthen my voice with the tonal qualities of an embodied emotional awareness, I deepen my capacity to experience the feelings of others and not grow frustrated or frantic in needing to understand them. I ask for help that matters, and can listen for invitations.

Instead of being concerned with what it all means, it’s time to pay attention to how I feel, as well as how those around me are feeling, in a new way. When I can share from emotion and not expectation, and can listen with curiosity and not reactivity, then I can sit more comfortably in things that may appear contradictory. I can build solidarity, and I can break down distrust.

There is so much distrust in the world. There is so much inertia moving our relationships away from uniting and down the slippery slope of skepticism and divisiveness. I believe that it is our need to make sense of things that drives wedges between us.

How can I support myself in a practice to “stop making sense”? How does that practice reinforce personal boundaries while creating greater collective opportunities?