There’s a lot on my mind (as per usual), and my thoughts aren’t fully formed enough to write about. This post from almost exactly 10 years ago comes closest. I hope you find something in it that speaks to you.
On Tuesday, I woke up with a pain in my neck. On Wednesday, I went to my network spinal analysis chiropractor to help me with it. After asking me some questions about the pain, what came out of it is I feel like I can’t keep up with my progress. I can’t keep up with myself and all the things I’d like to do.
In the process of coaching me through transformation, she said there is a space between who I am and who I’d like to become. And in that space, I need to breathe in trust and creativity. I don’t need to know how to get where I’d like to go, I just need to trust I’ll get there and remember to be creative.
Boy, was that exactly what I needed to hear. After coming back from Denmark, I’ve felt listless and despondent because of the differences in our countries. People in Denmark are more chill, as far as I can tell. There isn’t as much of a “go, go, go” energy. Coming back to the Bay Area, the land of start-ups and entrepreneurs, I’ve felt overwhelmed by the hustle. I have zero interest right now in making an inspirational meme every day, launching a webinar, or looking for ways to put myself out there more.
And because I’ve had no motivation to advance my career, particularly after seeing how the Danes are happy without the intense hustle and bustle, I’ve started to wonder whether it’s OK for me to be where I am. To accept my life as it is, doing the things I’m doing. Can I be content with what I have?
My chiropractor reminded me it’s important to hold on to my dreams and, at the same time, to let go of the how. I tend to think there is a prescribed way of doing things. That there are certain steps and someone else knows them. I often fall prey to the idea that this webinar or that book has the magic formula for me to follow to end up where I’d like to be. To become who I wish. But that’s not true.
That point is emphasized in my spiritual tradition. We have a mantra we sing after bathing and the gist is that I am the divine, the divine is working through me, my actions are the divine, and the outcomes of my actions are the divine. In no part am I separate from that which has created everything. In no instance am I on my own.
I don’t have to have all the answers. I don’t have to even know the questions. The important thing for me is to keep trusting, to keep surrendering, and to keep remembering that my higher power is working through me. Yes, there is a gap between where I am and where I’d like to be, but unfortunately, there is no map. And instead, the way I find myself in that new space is to do everything I already mentioned: trust, surrender, and keep moving.
I dream of a world where we understand sometimes there’s a gap between where we are and where we’d like to be. A world where instead of thinking everyone else has the answers, we recognize the answers live inside us. A world where we remember we are never alone or helpless because there is a powerful force working through us. A world where we trust that force is helping us be where we’d like to be.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I’m at the point where most of my friends are talking about getting older, and they’re grieving the fact they no longer have the same sense of possibility about their future like they did when they were younger. The essence is, “The world is no longer my oyster.” But have you actually thought about that expression? Oysters are closed, tight, dark. They’re not warm, open, or inviting.
Does that mean when we use that expression, we’re saying the world is a tightly closed, dark place? Or are we saying that we’re the precious jewelry formed in oysters, a pearl? If so, that’s not particularly flattering either. Natural pearls are formed when a parasite works its way into an oyster, and as a defense mechanism, the oyster coats the irritant with layer after layer until voila! A pearl.
That’s kind of gross to think about, but honestly, where I’m at in my life, that tracks. The world can be scary, uncomfortable, uncertain, filled with irritants, but through that experience, we emerge as pearls. We come out different from what we were before, and without knowing the exact shape we’ll be in when we emerge.
Seems kinda irritating. Photo by Thomas John on Unsplash
It’s not only pearls that come from hardship. There are wildflowers that only grow because they were exposed to high heat from fires, which is called scarification. Spiritual teacher Tosha Silver talks about this, too. She says, “True surrender to Love isn’t just about being ‘guided.’ It’s a freakin holy alchemy that you can neither control nor predict. You are ravished. You are changed.” I wish this weren’t true, and I wish I were changed and shaped in the ways that fit with my vision, but, well, that’s never happened.
My spiritual practice is about finding God in everything – the mundane and the extraordinary, the suffering and the ease. There is nowhere I can go to escape the divine, and that means God is here, too, in the transformation process, in the wars, in the famine. In all of it. How will we be different on the other side? Will we be bright and shiny pearls, stronger as a result of living in the dark, confined, irritating spaces? Maybe. It’s something I, personally, am hoping for.
I dream of a world where we remember that if the world is our oyster, that means we are the pearl. A world where we understand beauty and transformation arise from hardship, and that’s always been so. A world where we recognize life is a path of change. A world where we understand, in essence, we are all on the path of the pearl.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
One of my guiding principles is that the universe is always communicating with us, so when something unusual happens – like this week – I pay attention. The other day, something small and slender drooped from the top bar of my shower stall. Was it caulk? The glue unfurling? No. It was a millipede.
For context, I live on the second floor, and my bathroom is nowhere near anything natural like a tree. Also, I’ve lived here for nearly 11 years, and I’ve never seen a millipede in my home before. In other words, this isn’t a common occurrence. This millipede essentially appeared out of thin air, and I’m choosing to believe it was to tell me something.
I googled the shamanic meaning of millipede and nothing resonated until I read a post from the website Symbols and Synchronicity, where the author wrote that millipedes are messengers. “Not messengers in the way of grand declarations, but gentle ones—quiet teachers reminding us that transformation is not always loud,” she said. “Many traditions hold them close, seeing in their patient crawl the essence of protection, endurance, and hidden strength. . .The millipede, coiling slow and sure, brings lessons in groundedness and trust in the path beneath our feet.”
My millipede didn’t look like this, fyi. Photo by Markus Blüthner on Unsplash
I won’t quote the entire piece – even though it’s gorgeous and I recommend reading it – but here are a few more parts that jumped out at me: “[The millipede] teaches in silence. No bark, no roar, no teeth. But you follow her for a while and she’ll show you how to go on when everything says stop. She’ll teach you to live like the forest floor lives: slow, patient, making something rich out of all that has fallen apart.”
And one more quote: “So if she comes, stop. Get low. Lay your palm to the ground and say thank you. For the lesson. For the witness. For the reminder that the slow way is not the wrong way. That you can lose things, many things, and still go on. That your healing, like hers, may come not in leaps—but in inches. And that is holy, too.”
When I read the piece from Symbols and Synchronicity, tears started streaming down my cheeks, and even now I’m getting choked up, because this year has been like that. Losing things, grieving dreams, releasing old ways of being. It’s been a deep and slow healing process. And oftentimes I feel like I’m backsliding, that I’m not making any progress at all. But then I get a message from the millipede, who says, “You’re healing in inches.”
No one else may notice the healing; I might not be able to broadcast it like a story on the 6 o’clock news, but it’s happening. This subtle growth is fitting for the season we’re in, too, in the Northern hemisphere. Winter is about hibernation, taking things slow. I know that’s counter to the messaging we get around the holidays but that doesn’t make it any less true.
The millipede reminds us to go slow, to remember slow is not bad or wrong. Sometimes it’s the only way and it’s still beautiful and worthwhile. Sometimes healing happens in inches, not leaps, and it’s still worth celebrating.
I dream of a world where we understand healing doesn’t always look the way we expect it to look. A world where we recognize it’s often slow and deep. A world where we celebrate the progress we’ve made, even if no one else can see it. A world where we remember that sometimes healing happens in inches, not leaps.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
It’s funny, or perhaps timely, that as we approach the longest night of the year in the Northern hemisphere that I’m thinking of light, both literal and metaphorical. On the metaphorical level, I very much relate to the story of the Golden Buddha.
Several hundred years ago in Thailand, monks covered a giant golden Buddha statue with clay to protect it from an attack by the Burmese army. During the attack, the monks were killed, so no one knew that beneath the clay was actually a golden Buddha. It wasn’t until 1957 when some monks attempted to relocate the Buddha that this discovery was made. They noticed a large crack in the clay, through which streamed something gold. The monks used a hammer and chisel to chip away at the clay exterior until it was revealed that the entire statue was made of solid gold.
I feel like that clay Buddha. The past several months have been a process of chipping away at my exterior – all the limiting beliefs, all the maladaptive coping strategies, all the everything that’s kept me from being my true self. The whole thing has been deeply painful. As if to encourage me during this process, I pulled an oracle card the other day. Here’s an excerpt of what it said:
“Through the natural process of transformation, great leaps are indeed possible. The situations in your current life are particularly geared toward a more significant manifestation that is coming to you according to your life path and purpose. This is a stage of preparation and building a foundation that will hold you strong and centered as your creative journey unfolds and your life path becomes ever more brilliant and luminous. Be hopeful and trust in the light you sense within you, for this light that is within you is simply revealed more fully. An affirmation for you: ‘I surrender what is into the loving fire of transformation. The light within me illuminates the present and manifests the future in the highest creative expression of unconditional love.’”
*A* Golden Buddha but not *the* Golden Buddha. Photo by Ganesh Kumar B N on Unsplash
When I pulled that oracle card, I cried because it struck me that everything I’m going through isn’t just a growth opportunity – it’s all setting me up for a stronger, more centered self. It’s setting me up to be happier. And it’s forcing the real me to shine through. Because of the way I’m oriented, I also think about how becoming ever more luminous helps other people.
It’s currently Hanukkah, which, yes, celebrates a war battle, but it’s also a symbolic battle where we remember the flame of one lamp lights up countless others, both literally and metaphorically. When we spread our light, our goodness, we light up other people. And together, we create a row of lights such that darkness retreats.
There’s a lot of darkness in the world, but there’s also a lot of light, both literally and metaphorically. People are hanging lights in their homes to bring in more literal light, but they’re also doing kind things for one another to bring in more metaphorical light. They watch their friend’s kid, they volunteer, they show up to protect immigrants. People all over the world are letting their goodness shine through and becoming ever more luminous. In this holiday season, that’s my wish for you, too.
I dream of a world where we recognize sometimes we go through hard things because ultimately it will take us somewhere happier and healthier. A world where we understand beneath a clay exterior, there lives a golden Buddha within each of us. A world where we let our light shine and become ever more luminous.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
We’re still in a time machine this week. I’m noticing I’m slowly chipping away at the obstacles before me, and this post from December 2018 gives me hope. May it do the same for you.
When I thought about what to write this week, the image that kept coming to mind was a sea wall battered by waves. That’s a lot of what 2018 felt like to me – ceaselessly buffeting an immovable object until finally the object disintegrated. That’s what happens to sea walls – they must be replaced every 30 years or so, depending on how well they’re constructed.
I haven’t fully processed everything that happened to me this year. It still feels surreal that issues I battled for so long are suddenly gone. It’s strange to no longer feel the weight of them like an anchor around my neck. But obstacles are like that – if we keep battling them, eventually they evaporate. When people said that to me at the beginning of the year, I didn’t believe them. Instead, I rolled my eyes because it felt like my obstacles were insurmountable, that I’d be dealing with the same things for years to come.
And now here I am at the end of the year, and I no longer wake up feeling like a zombie. That probably doesn’t sound like a big obstacle, just go to sleep at a decent hour, right? Except as I wrote in “Minor Miracles,” sleep wasn’t so easy. I consulted Eastern and Western medicine seeking help for sleep, and it wasn’t until late August I found out I have upper airway resistance syndrome. I spent seven solid years with brain fog, low energy, and dread about going to bed. Now, the brain fog is gone, my energy levels are steadily increasing, and going to bed doesn’t fill me with as much trepidation. The obstacle I thought I’d be dealing with until I died is suddenly gone.
Continuous waves spell eventual collapse for this wall. Photo by Maksym Kaharlytskyi on Unsplash
I can imagine my spiritual teacher giving me a knowing smile. He is a Pollyanna type and says difficulties can never be greater than our capacity to overcome them, and that we’ll overcome all obstacles. He doesn’t allow for any possibility of defeat, even if it takes lifetimes. When I consider a sea wall, I wonder if perhaps his view is more realistic. There’s no way a sea wall can withstand the constant pressure from the sea, the wear and tear of salt, sand, and sun. There are too many elements at play.
Maybe we human beings are like that. Maybe there are multiple unseen forces at work in our lives, acting like the salt, sand, and sun that mean we, too, will be victorious. I don’t want to make it seem like overcoming obstacles is easy, because it’s not. But this year has given me a new appreciation and a new understanding for scaling them. When we do the slow and steady work, eventually the obstacle must collapse.
Sometimes we think things won’t change, or that impediments are too vast, but if we keep doing the work, if we keep putting one foot in front of the other, eventually the sea walls come down. May we all remember the power of persistence and carry it with us in the months and years to come.
I dream of a world where we recognize the power we all have. A world where we understand the truth about obstacles. A world where we remember if we keep chipping away at whatever is before us, eventually it will crumble. A world where we understand the power of persistence.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
On Saturday, I visited my old San Francisco neighborhood for the first time in years. It was weird to compare what it used to look like to what it looks like now. It was also strange to be there and remember the person I used to be. My friends asked me if I missed living in the city, and the truthful answer is no.
It’s funny because in 2012, when I began my period of moving on average every three months for three years, I cried buckets over no longer being in SF. It was a heartbreak on par with a breakup. I’d spent ages longing to move to San Francisco, dreaming about it, imagining what my life would be like, and then when I arrived, it was the culmination of a dream. I loved being in the city. I loved the convenience, the ease, the energy. I woke up every day grateful I lived in San Francisco.
And then, the universe basically forcibly removed me. My dream became a nightmare. My building put up scaffolding to paint the exterior, and I kept telling management I was worried someone would break in. And guess what? They did! Not to my apartment, but still. And then, because of the paint job, my windows were covered so I couldn’t even see outside, and barely had any sunlight. Add in not sleeping through the night, and it was truly a waking nightmare.
Hello past self. Photo by Tandem X Visuals on Unsplash
I left SF, but I wasn’t happy about it. I wrote poems about it, longed for the life I had, but kept moving forward. And now, I’m so changed that whenever I return to my old neighborhood, it’s like those feelings, that life, belonged to someone else. It’s like I’m confronting the ghost of my past self. That makes sense given what my spiritual teacher has to say about death and change.
He says, “A 5-year-old child is transformed in due course into a 15-year-old boy. In 10 years, the child becomes the boy. Thereafter, you will never be able to find the body of the 5-year-old child. So the child’s body has certainly died.” He then goes on to mention the boy growing into a man, and then hitting middle age, then old age, until he finally dies and says, “The rest of the changes we do not call death; but in fact, all the changes qualify as death.”
All the changes qualify as death because the person who used to exist cannot be found anymore. That’s me. I have died many times and will do so again. And it’s true for all of us. We’re constantly undergoing a metamorphosis. We’re constantly dying and being reborn. We all have many “ghosts” walking around. The people we used to be, and aren’t any longer.
Normally, I’d feel sad or tender about that, but it can also be something wistful or neutral. I have gratitude and appreciation for my past self, for the young woman who so desperately wanted to move to San Francisco and did. But I’m not that person anymore. These days, I have new dreams, new desires, and new selves to meet. And I’m sure that one day in the future, I’ll look back and think of this current self as a ghost, too.
I dream of a world where we recognize change is constant, not only in the world but in ourselves. A world where we understand that we will all die many times while we live. A world where we recognize there are many ghosts of our past selves walking around.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I write this blog for myself, but I also write it for others. So they know they aren’t alone. So they can glimpse into someone else’s life and have another reference point other than the “everything is great” highlight reel so often presented via social media. And I write it hoping others will find even a modicum of inspiration.
Last week, I wrote about a portal of transformation. How the grief I’m feeling is changing me into someone new. However, the reality is, I’m not a butterfly yet. Instead, I very much identify with the chrysalis stage.
From Scientific American, when the caterpillar forms the chrysalis, it digests itself, releasing enzymes to dissolve all of its tissues. “If you were to cut open a cocoon or chrysalis at just the right time, caterpillar soup would ooze out,” according to the article. The caterpillar completely dissolves. What it was before no longer exists.
But what’s also interesting is the transformation process isn’t a chaotic, random thing. There’s some guidance in the form of imaginal discs, like a blueprint of what’s to come. Before hatching, when a caterpillar is still developing inside its egg, it grows an imaginal disc for each of the adult body parts it will need as a mature butterfly or moth. There are discs for its eyes, wings, legs, etc. “Once a caterpillar has disintegrated all of its tissues except for the imaginal discs, those discs use the protein-rich soup all around them to fuel the rapid cell division required to form the wings, antennae, legs, eyes, genitals and all the other features of an adult butterfly or moth,” according to the article.
A beautiful and painful process. For humans anyway. Photo by Bankim Desai on Unsplash
And while the process isn’t painful because caterpillars don’t have those nerve receptors, the final act of emerging from the chrysalis is physically demanding, and crucial for the butterfly’s survival. The physical act of bursting forth from the chrysalis helps pump fluid into the wings, strengthening them for flight. And if the butterfly doesn’t go through that challenging process, its wings will be deformed. It will have trouble flying for the rest of its life.
As I’m going through my own challenges, I take heart in knowing everything I’m experiencing is fuel for something else, something better. And indeed, that’s also something my spiritual teacher says:
“Can we achieve honor, status and other things that we want in this material world without a struggle? And when we consider our aspiration for development and advancement in the mental world, that also cannot be brought about without a struggle. That is why, everywhere, whether in the crude or subtle sphere, struggle is the essence of life.”
I often rail against this because I want life to be comfortable, easy. But, well, apparently that’s not what I signed up for. And if I’m really honest, at my core, I want to advance. I have aspirations to go ever higher and that means clash, conflict, and struggle. To quote my spiritual teacher again, “Whenever there is clash or conflict within any structure, whether subtle or crude, it acquires subtlety. This applies to both psychic clash and physical clash. The more subtle the crude mind becomes as a result of internal clash, the greater its spiritual awakening.”
I recognize every deeply painful process is a part of my spiritual awakening, is a part of my evolution. And while I’m still in the chrysalis stage, I take heart that eventually I will emerge as a butterfly.
I dream of a world where we understand that to become someone new, we have to dissolve who we were. A world where we recognize the process isn’t chaotic and disorganized, no matter how it may look. A world where we understand that challenge is what allows for evolution. And at the same time, we accept that sometimes we have to be in the chrysalis.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I read a letter on Facebook the other day from E.B. White (the author of Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little) to a man who wrote to him in despair over the bleakness of the human race. It was written in 1973. I can’t say for sure why the man, Mr. Nadeau, thought the world was so bleak, but it could be because he witnessed the horrors of the Vietnam War. Regardless, I loved White’s response and I’m tweaking it so the language is more gender neutral:
North Brooklin, Maine,
30 March 1973
Dear Mr. Nadeau:
As long as there is one upright person, as long as there is one compassionate human, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.
Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society — things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people, we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. People’s curiosity, their relentlessness, their inventiveness, their ingenuity have led them into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable them to claw their way out.
Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
These used to need winding. Photo by Ales Krivec on Unsplash
I’m reminded of a related story about how things can change quickly. I learned recently that Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceausescu’s regime ended very quickly. He reigned for 21 years, and then in the course of two weeks, that all crumbled. This BBC article gives the whole story, but the abbreviated version is this: protests started mid-December 1989 in Timisoara, which Ceausescu quickly and violently quelled. He gave a live speech on December 21, 1989, where he blamed “fascist agitators” for the Timisoara protests, but the crowd wasn’t having it. The national broadcast was abruptly cut from the airwaves. He and his wife tried to flee the country, but they were captured and promptly executed by a firing squad on Christmas Day.
I mean, I don’t love that they were executed by a firing squad, but nonetheless, this reign of terror that lasted for 21 years did finally end. Because people were relentless. They said, “No, we aren’t having this.” The change didn’t happen overnight, but it did happen, and quickly.
It can feel easy to fall into despair, to lament the state of the world and think nothing will ever change, but what’s more true is that we have evidence over and over again that it does. There is always a break in the clouds and the sun shines again. There are more compassionate, upright moral people in the world than the opposite, even if the news tries to convince us otherwise. We cannot control when or how positive changes will occur, but we can keep “winding the clock.” And that’s exactly what I plan to do.
I dream of a world where we remember tomorrow is another day. A world where we understand there will always be a break in the clouds and the sun will shine once more. A world where we recognize things can, do, and will change. A world where we hold onto hope and do our part by winding the metaphorical clock.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
It’s been truly strange around my neighborhood for the last few days, and I’m not reacting the way I thought I’d react – or the way other people are predicting I’d react. On Thursday, my friend Michael was standing in the doorway and said, “Do you know that guy?” A young man was hopping the fence that separates my apartment complex from my neighbors. I didn’t know him. Michael confronted him as he hopped the fence on the other side.
A few minutes later, police officers drove down the street, and Michael notified them about the trespasser. I thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. The police officers kept coming. And so did two helicopters. And then U.S. marshals. Around 40 police officers and U.S. marshals blocked my street and patrolled with assault rifles drawn. I went grocery shopping in the middle of this and they wouldn’t let me walk back to my apartment without a police escort. Some of my neighbors weren’t allowed in their homes while the officers looked for the guy who hopped the fence.
I read in a news article later that the guy who jumped my fence was armed and the U.S. marshals were looking for him along with two others who were involved in a robbery. One of the culprits violated his patrol. This search and lockdown continued for hours. The two helicopters circled right above me for three hours straight. Police officers literally blocked my driveway.
You can do it! Photo by Stijn Swinnen on Unsplash
When I tell most people the events from Thursday, they respond with, “Wow. That’s so scary.” But here’s the thing: I didn’t feel scared. Even though I saw the person they were after. Even though there were guns drawn. I was annoyed. My nerves were frayed from the constant noise and stimulation. But I wasn’t scared.
Then on Saturday, I was without power for 11 hours. I knew it was coming – the electricity company needed to work on a utility pole. Friends remarked how annoying that would be, how unsettling. But I didn’t really mind. It was quiet. I couldn’t even hear the hum of a refrigerator. And it wasn’t so bad because I have a gas stove and could still make myself food. Plus, I just returned from traveling so my tablet was filled with downloaded movies and TV shows. It was fine. I was fine.
My reactions remind me of a quote by A.A. Milne, author of the Winnie-the-Pooh series, who said, “You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think, and loved more than you know.” I am strong, and brave, and resilient. I don’t operate with the same amount of fear anymore – even in situations where people expect me to be afraid, I’m not.
Essentially, I’m stepping into my power. I’m owning what I’m capable of as I am, right now. Not the me of 10 years ago. Not the me people think I should be, but the me of here, and now. The me who meets challenges over and over again. The me that says, “I’m scared but I’m still facing this.” I know that’s not true for everyone but even still, maybe you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think, and loved more than you know.
I dream of a world where we see ourselves clearly. A world where we stop selling ourselves short. A world where we understand we are capable of so much more than we give ourselves credit for. A world where we take care of ourselves over and over again and realize that’s exactly what we’re doing.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.
I had a poignant experience on Wednesday. First, some context. I’m a Network Spinal Analysis practice member. It’s a technique that relieves tension from the spinal cord with the gentlest of touches. According to Network Spinal Analysis Founder Dr. Donny Epstein, there are 12 stages of healing. These aren’t linear or hierarchical, they’re more like seasons.
Stage one is suffering. It’s an awareness that something is wrong and it’s time to connect with the reality of what is. It’s being with the body to bring ease and compassion to the self. Stage 12 is about community. It’s recognizing that our wholeness comes from bringing our gifts of individuality into the collective. It’s also about receiving gifts from others so there’s a loop of giving and receiving.
On Wednesday, I had a call with other Network Spinal Analysis practice members, and we did breathing exercises relevant to our respective stages. While I did the stage one exercise, the rest did stage 12. Oof. That’s so hard because I take service seriously. It’s one of the core tenets of my spiritual tradition and I always feel pressure to do more and/or that I’m not doing enough.
Sometimes you need to be held by the collective. Photo by Becca Tapert on Unsplash
And in these times where I know we are the “magic wands,” that change happens because we make it happen, my desire to contribute is immense. It feels like if I’m not doing something, I’m letting the fascists win. But, well, my body needs a break. It’s made that very clear. The breathing call showed me viscerally that I don’t always have to be “on” or giving my gifts. I don’t have to always contribute to society because other people are giving their gifts. Other people are fighting the good fight and when I’m ready, I’ll re-enter the metaphorical arena and give someone else a break.
This is how the collective works. We hold one another as we cycle through our various rhythms.
My spiritual teacher says, “The movement of human beings in this universe is not movement for movementʼs sake, but is comparable to a joyous pilgrimage …. Suppose one among them is attacked by cholera, do the rest go on their way, leaving him behind? No, they cannot. Rather, they break their journey at the place for a day or two, relieve him from the disease, and help him to acquire strength in his legs. Or, they start out anew, carrying him on their shoulders. If anyone runs short of her subsistence, others give her their own. Together, they share everything with all. Together, they stream ahead, singing their leading chorus.”
Later, he says it’s when people “attain a deep psychic affinity while traveling together [this is what] helps them solve all the problems in their individual and social lives.” It’s humbling to admit that sometimes I’m the person who has cholera, metaphorically, but nonetheless, it’s true. And instead of beating myself up about it, I can relax and remember I’m a pilgrim on a pilgrimage and there’s a collective that’s holding me and holding all of us.
I dream of a world where we realize we all cycle through periods of rest and contribution. A world where we give when we can and let ourselves receive when we need. A world where we trust that we don’t have to do everything all the time because there’s a greater collective that’s holding us.
Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.