I brought dessert to the deck where my family and friends were gathered under the night sky in the mountains.
Back indoors, something prodded me to check my email. I had been unplugged most of the weekend but I listened to this inner urging.I had only one email which mentioned prayers for El Paso. So, I googled it and read a report or two about the shooting there.
My heart broke. Water spilled out of my eyes. My breath shortened.
I recognized what was happening. I was “catching trauma.” I knew what to do in this situation. I deepened my breath, closed my eyes and let the tears fall freely. I let my heart keep breaking. I focused on my breath. This was the sanest thing I could muster in the midst of insanity and tragedy in El Paso.
I was present, engaged in the heartache and the devastation, as I allowed my emotions to process without engaging my mind’s commentary.
I didn’t “leave the room” or defend against this saddest of news. I stayed with the initial shock and the depth of unrest within me. I focused on my breathing until I felt the tears slow and the cortisol process through me. As I maintained my intense focus on being present and “soothing my system,” my body calmed. I opened my eyes. Relaxing my focus on the breath, I felt the thoughts intrude.
I felt the urge to share this dramatic news with my family and friends.
There was a definite desire to share my upset and discuss the horror of it all. I watched this urge and explored it’s purpose (there were a number of layers here) and the potential benefit (were more layers here). I breathed and watched the impulse to be… impulsive. And then I heard it….
Laughter exploded from the deck. Rich in harmony, delight, and companionship.
This broke my urge to report and brought me to what was actually happening around me. Love. Friendship. Enjoyment. Sharing. Delight. All in a natural environment. I listened carefully.
Some were laughing together while others were venturing a guess about what planets were visible.
The kids were lighting a fire below. The music was playing. We were safe, happy, and engaged. There was love, support, and interest across many different ages. I realized how healthy this was. How beneficial for the wellbeing of each person.
So I made a choice to engage in this love of life, family, friends, and the natural world.
Aware that I could not positively make a difference in El Paso in the moment, I made the choice that made the most sense. I joined the community I was with while allowing my heart to stay open and the sadness to move through me at will. I entered into delightful, meaningful conversations. I listened carefully. I laughed a lot. I laid on the dock in the dark and (inaccurately) identified the constellations and planets above. I kicked ass in a rowdy game of spoons.
Peace be with you and with all. No exceptions.
Resilience can be developed at any age. And personality isn’t as big a factor as you think. That’s great news. Neuroscientists believe the pathway from the prefrontal cortex (decision making, planning) to the amygdala (emotional response to threat) is especially important. The better this connection, the faster your prefrontal cortex can “sssshhhh” the amygdala. Read it a bedtime story. Sing a lullaby. Calm down the emotional reaction of fight or flight. Having a strong social network, facing the thing that scares you, and having an ethical code to guide daily decisions help build resilience.
Learn the one essential skill that allows you to face any challenge with confidence, sturdiness, and inner calm.
More than a technique. It’s a game changer.
Three months ago, I unexpectedly entered into a relationship with a horse.
I met Zor during a visit to Liberty Stables in Florida, where I had gone to spend time with a friend’s horses. I had no particular expectations. I have no background with horses, no training, and no experience in equine-assisted therapy. I simply met this magnificent Friesian, and something quietly familiar unfolded between us.
I fell in love.
The women who arrive in my classes, retreats, and therapy sessions are sincerely looking for healing, expansion, clarity, or sometimes just a little room to breathe.
They are thoughtful women, deeply engaged with the people and work they love. Rarely do they arrive because they want another spiritual philosophy. Most are carrying something much more ordinary.
A life that has become full. Beautiful in many ways, but crowded.
About twenty-five years ago, I was driving with a colleague to a local conference. As we approached the hotel entrance, I noticed an open parking spot near the front door.
“There’s a spot,” I said, pointing to the right. He drove past it.
A few seconds later, another one appeared. He drove past that one, too. Then I pointed to a third. “There’s a spot.” Without the slightest hesitation, Dan replied, “I’ll leave that for someone else.” And he calmly parked much farther away. As we walked to the entrance, I asked about that statement.
During the Seeding the Light Gathering, I had the privilege of hosting Pascual and Jose Tomas in our home.
They feel like family as this was their second visit to New Jersey. We’ve also spent a week together in Damanhur and the Temples of Humankind in Italy. I’ve sat in many ceremonies with Pascual in Peru’s Sacred Valley. His flute playing often carried me up mountain trails in the thin air and hot sun.
I planned to work a bit, complete some projects, and enjoy slow days with plenty of relaxation.
All of that certainly occurred, but beneath it all, something else began quietly inviting my attention.
The plane had begun its slow fall toward the earth when a sharp ache pierced my ears. Half-dozing, half-aware, I surfaced into the moment just as the toddler in front of me woke with a scream that broke her open. The sound wasn’t defiance or misbehavior. It was pain.
I felt her small body struggling to make sense of something she couldn’t name.
Her mother bent over her with the tenderness of someone trying very hard to be a good parent. But her soothing came dressed in urgency, in the quiet pressure to behave, to use words, to be okay, to not disturb those seated around her. Her voice shook with the effort of managing her child’s distress and her own rising shame.
