Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

July 11, 2019

As I type this, there's a bird outside my window learning how to sing. I can't help but think that, if I hadn't been up at this hour, if I hadn't stared out the window waiting for inspiration to strike, if I hadn't listened, I would never have heard something so marvelous.

But that's the thing--I was here. I don't have to think about why or about how I could have missed it, had I woken later or earlier. There's is always something that marvelous, we're just usually too wrapped up in ourselves, in trying to solve and remember absolutely everything, to notice. 

So looked at that way, our timing is always perfect. Do you think that could be a philosophy by which we could live? If so--what freedom we could grant ourselves. Our timing is always perfect. Full stop. 

Imagine how easily we'd breathe. Imagine how much we'd notice.

July 9, 2019

The moment you have, as opposed to the moment(s) you don't have (yet)--that's the trick, isn't it? that's the lifelong work of remaining where you are, rather than madly catapulting yourself into created moments, anticipated moments, moments most likely fraught with some dire prediction or other. All we have is the moment we're in. 

For all the good it does, it bears repeating: all we have is the moment we're in. 

Which begs the question, who am I trying to convince here? I'm certainly not teaching anyone anything they don't know--myself included. It's the putting it into practice where we need the reminding--daily, heck, hourly reminding. Minute-by-minute reminding, most days. 

So we crack on and haul ourselves, kicking and screaming, back from the edge of anticipation and dread and back into the moment where we can, perhaps, catch a breath or two before chasing ourselves down again.

July 2, 2019

It seems like such an easy concept--knowing where you are now. But if you think about it, it makes all the difference in the world. You don't have to worry about where you're going; you don't even have to know what you're doing. As long as you're in the moment, as long as you know (literally) where you are in space, how it feels to breathe there, how your feet feel in their shoes on this floor, knowing what your eyes see and your ears hear, then you'll be fine. The information you need will always come to you, a solution of some sort will always arrive, if you are present. 

But that's a big 'if.' We're so rarely present; our brains love to whip us around, whip us into a frenzy of anticipation, anxiety, what if's, and random worries. But if we can BE present, we could realize we have all the answers, or the ability to learn the skills to find the answers, at our fingertips. 

We know this because it's true. We've had moments of absolute clarity, moments of absolute presence, and I'll bet y...

June 3, 2019

It's so not easy being human, and I think it all comes down to the absolutely exquisite pain of knowing time is passing. It's that knowledge that trips us up, makes us desperate, makes us hasty. And, of course, nothing good comes from desperate hastiness. 

But the beauty of being human is that we *can* learn from those mistakes; we *can* alter our reactions in the future. Sure. We CAN, but do we? It usually takes a few turns around the sun (more time passing...) before we assimilate those lessons. That's the steel-toed irony, isn't it? If we could stay in the moment, we'd no longer fret so much about all this time passing and, of course, we'd make fewer so-called mistakes. 

So, I don't know. It's hard--all of it. But it's lovely, too, when you can BE in that moment. When, occasionally (until it's more than occasionally), you can call yourself back to center, back to the moment. And when you drift, when you flap, forgive yourself, and just come home. 

November 19, 2018

It's because we know what *could* happen that we paralyze ourselves. And for some reason, we never think, "oh, this *could* be fabulous." No, we always seem to go full-throttle for disaster. I suppose preparing for the worst isn't the worst (ha!) thing we could do. But how does that saying go, "expect the best but prepare for the worst"? 

Well. I think we're leaving a vital step out of that equation...

So. Here's to the best we can expect--without trepidation, curses, or jinxes.

We are sweet creatures, petals, and we deserve a hell of a break.

November 7, 2018

So often I regret opening my mouth because what comes out is negative, unhappy, unnecessary, or complaining. It's never my intent, but that's where I end up. I don't know whether it's because I must somewhere, somehow be deeply unhappy, or if it's my sad Aquarian attempt at making conversation and fitting in. Either way, I wish I could remember to keep myself to myself, to reinstate my filter, or--best case scenario--to focus on beauty every so often.

August 2, 2018

Maybe it's that we're tired of searching. That's our common denominator, isn't it? We're all searching--for love, for health, for community, for security, for assurity. Maybe that sweetly innocent aspect of the human condition will be what brings us, despite our apparent differences, together. I don't know. 

But I do know one answer. I do know that peace lies in paying attention. That paying attention anchors us to this moment and in this moment, we're here, we're breathing, life is breathing on beside us and we're just fine. Paying attention is the magical act that brings us into presence--and our ability to to change, to manifest, to influence anything in our lives is limited to the present, to this immediate moment. 

Beyond that, I don't know. But that's the lovely thing about it--if we pay attention, we don't need to know. 

June 6, 2018

Storms--or for the sake of this exploration, sudden, arresting events--have a way of either stopping us in our tracks or sprinting for cover. Either way, they're a bookmark in what has become, perhaps, a rather repetitive story. 

These events, these storms, these full-stops are an opportunity to pause, to look both ways--ahead and behind--and to decide, here and now (emphasis on the now) to move only forward. 

Let the storm be a baptism--an initiation--into the present, where, thanks to the sudden drenching, you are overwhelmingly aware that you are gloriously alive.

May 9, 2018

Given independence from what has come before, from what will come after, grace is self-renewing. But the trick is to be present, and the trick to being present is to stop everything for a moment and take what's in front of us on its own merit--no commentary crowding in from the last five minutes, the next five minutes. 

Do we have time for such a use of our time? 

And what quality of life do we risk if we don't?

April 26, 2018

Here's the insight that arrived last night: we are so buffeted by energy from every corner--whether electromagnetic, radio- or microwave, other people's energy and expectations or a change in wind or weather. It's no wonder we're so dry and tinder-ready--we are blown around, sapped of our own ojas, left to wither in a sun that can no longer feed us.

In other words, we have not sunk into the sweet, deep earth around us. We learn, in energy medicine, in Reiki, and in meditation to ground ourselves--more often than not, we're taught to imagine a tether from tailbone to earth. For me, this was always hard to conceptualize--a thin cord not up to the task of keeping this frenetic and flighty soul held in space. But then I happened upon a meditation by Wendy De Rosa where she invoked, not a cord, but a tree trunk enveloping waist, hips, legs, and feet. It was a revelation. 

That enveloped, whole-body anchor is the first step toward self-healing.

It's about time we called in reinforceme...

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This Quiet Earth