Earth and Her Rhythms Are Powerful Teachers

It's the morning of the Summer Solstice and I've ridiculously overscheduled myself today.

The thing is, quite a few of my regularly-scheduled commitments are happening today. A Mastermind Circle on-line meeting at 8 am, a Creativity Workshop I teach every month on the evening of the third Thursday. It's my habit to go to the farmers' market on Thursday mornings also. I think I'm going to give myself permission to skip that today. Makes me sad, though. That's a self-love kinda thing I do for myself.

But the loving thing to do today may actually be saying, "No."

The centerpiece of the day is around a teaching relationship I have. We get together on these days when the rhythms of the Earth deeply support our transformational work. There is something about working with the rhythms and flows that makes our work more powerful - whether those rhythms and flows are related to our connection with the bigger things of which we are a part or whether they are native to our own beings.

The Solstice arrived at 6:07 am with the crossing of the sun into Cancer. All the beginnings of seasons are marked with the sun crossing into the cardinal signs of the Zodiac. Aries, Cancer, Libra, and Capricorn. We move into a cardinal sign (as opposed to fixed or mutable signs) so movement and (because Cancer is a water sign) flow are possible. And not just possible, but deeply desired and supported by the Earth rhythms.

I find myself this morning releasing Gemini's mercurial energies on the breath and feeling the flow of my inner waterways fed by the heart. 

I'm smiling as I'm thinking about that. 

Having awareness around the natural rhythms enables deeper pathways of manifestation. I think of it like an almost mathematical formula:

Awareness + Action = Change

And as I move more deeply into meditating upon that formula, I notice words emerging around the type of action that best leads to the kinds of change we want to see in our lives and in the world around us. 

Action that is inspired and focused and directed.

It's a good day to notice the seeds that are breaking open in us for the next season. It's a good day to notice what is coming to fulfillment or completing, what is blossoming. It's a good day to notice where we have flow and where things are blocked. To meditate on the teachings of rocks in the river and the ways water flows around obstructions, wearing them away over time. Or finding other channels of movement.

Earth and her rhythms are powerful teachers. 

I'm feeling like I might return to this at the end of the day. Something feels unfinished. Or perhaps it is simply this need I find in myself sometimes to say it all. That's folly, of course. But there's something I started with that feels untouched here. 

Perhaps I'll find more clarity as the day unfolds.

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed June 1, 2018 as a container to harness three months of thriving. The goal at the end is to have a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it. Most of them usually are. 

The Secret Life of Seeds

I spent the evening with children.

The church I work with hosts an evening children's program in April, June, and September. I offered to design and teach the program in June. We are working with the theme of growth and are using three parables that talk about the secret life of seeds. We have everything set up outside on the concrete porch of the church, which is located on a busy corner in a changing neighborhood in Philadelphia. 

We've got as many adults attending as we do kids, and this week we had four teenagers show up. It's mysterious to me how these things happen. You toss something beautiful out there and it takes hold.

Tonight we talked about harvest. I had a big glass bowl of fruit and vegetables in the middle of the table. I had a slender vase of pansies from the church garden there as well. A colleague who dropped in for the evening lifted her eyebrows as I moved from picking flowers and settling them into the vase to calling the kids together to begin. 

Use what you have. Begin where you are.

We start with dinner and then move into the lesson and the activity. The first week we talked about planting. Last week it was growth. This week harvest. The last few weeks we were all about playing in the dirt. We made grass heads in plastic water bottles, first to reuse and upcycle them, and second so we could see what's going on beneath the surface. I brought in sprouting sweet potatoes for them to plant the next week, first because they're cool, and second because I guessed that these kids had never seen anything like that before. 

And I was right. They hadn't. It captured their imaginations. 

The parable that week had been about the mystery of growth. 

Each week, we review the lessons of previous weeks. These kids are smart. They pay attention and absorb every lesson. Then we launch into the new learning. It's always about what happens next. Seed to shoot to bud to flower to fruit to seed. 

Everything begins and ends with the seed.

I never know exactly how things are going to proceed when I work with kids. I have a plan, but pay close attention to what emerges in the moment and allow that to lead. When I started cutting open fruit and veggies and showing the kids what is inside, all of a sudden there were valiant requests to eat the fruits and veggies. They'd spurned the tacos prepared for dinner but went nuts over the fruit and veggies. I started with apples, showed them the star inside, moved into cucumbers and then into cantaloupe. All seed-bearing fruits. I also had potatoes in the bowl, and when I finally pulled one out and asked if they thought we'd find seeds inside when we cut it open, they chorused a resounding, "No!" 

They'd remembered the lessons learned with the sweet potatoes. That the potato itself is the seed. 

So to speak.

And they totally got the lessons around harvest as they giggled while juice ran down their arms, and the sweetness and juiciness of the fruits and the experience of eating them together, around the table, filled them with joy. With harvest comes the feast.

That was to have been next week's lesson. Celebration.

Tonight's plan had been to use different fruits and veggies as painting implements. My lesson had broken open - like the fruits and veggies - and like seeds. I had a gigantic cutting board in front of me, covered in apple, cucumber, and melon seeds, while the kids munched on the fruit, and I found myself cutting designs into potato halves. I'd never done that before.

That became part of the evening's lesson.

Sometimes you have to risk doing something you've never done before in front of a lot of people so that everyone can learn something new. 

We all made awesome works of art with finger paints and potato halves. There were red hearts and triangles, blue squares and Pac Man heads, green leaves and stems, yellow crescent moons and an uncut potato half that you could make into a sun if you added rays with your fingers. And a little yellow circle of potato for Pac Man food. All cut into potato halves by a woman who prayed as she worked that the shapes were recognizable. 

Every child at the table was held in rapt attention the whole time. 

The adults watched with interest. Especially when I said I'd never done it before. People love to watch someone else try something new. 

And I had a ball.

It was a deeply restorative end to a very long day at work. I had also onboarded a new office temp, led a Bible Study for seniors, led a Stewardship meeting around creating a gratitude program for the church to prime the members for the visioning work we'd be doing down the road, completed what felt like a million other tasks in the moments between and beyond.

And I finished writing this a minute before midnight.

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.  

Something in Me Wanted to Stay Close to Home

The day is achingly beautiful.

Blue skies, every kind of gorgeous cloud imaginable, breezes, green everywhere. The roadways are lined with wildflowers. Honeysuckle on the vine, day lilies, and so many others whose names I've somehow failed to learn. Or have forgotten. Delicate blue blossoms, pink, yellow, soft white. Every color imaginable. 

Hawks circle in the skies. 

The day is also achingly hot. 

But this did not bother me at all as I drove through the countryside today. I had the windows open and music playing. I did not have anything scheduled for most of the day. I figured I'd do some tasks around the house. But those were very easy to sacrifice to being out and about .

I was tempted to drive an hour to the coast and walk by the ocean. 

But something in me wanted to stay close to home.

As I sit here writing late at night, my thoughts are interrupted by the desire to close my eyes and sink back into the day. Something I noticed about myself today in all that beauty was the instinct to be deeply present. To notice everything. To connect with the natural world with all my senses. 

It's important to be out in nature. We spend so much of our lives indoors, especially on achingly hot days. We spend so much of our lives connected to technology. Plugged in. It feels good to unplug, to connect to something other than the Internet. To fill our brains with the stimulation offered by the gifts of Earth on an achingly beautiful summer day. To allow something creative to counter the destructive impulses we observe day in and day out as we tune in to news and commentary and outrage and relentless electronic stimulation. 

I carried my desire for beauty and ease into dinner this evening. A simple salad with a simple olive oil and lemon dressing, some wild-caught salmon simply prepared punctuated the day and leaves me filled with a peace I will carry into sleep. 

I expect a long day at work tomorrow. And I'm grateful for having been able to sink into wildness today. 

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it. Most of them usually are.

   

   

The Rebellious Teenager Showed Up for Work Today

I must need to have a rebellious teenager in my life.

I come from a long line of women who don't like to be told what to do, who are tenacious, and who tend to defy expectations. My grandmother accomplished the kinds of things a woman in the 1930s, 40s, and 50s did not often attempt, and my great-grandmother left everything behind to start a new life in a new land as a young bride at the turn of the century. I can only imagine the kind of grit she had to muster to do that. After I turned 50, my mother (who is perfect, by the way) began to fess up to her own teenage rebelliousness. And my daughter wrote the book on teenage rebellion. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I can hold my own with both of them there, but my mother and my daughter have more self-discipline than I can dream of. They accomplish like pros. 

I must have missed that gene. 

Today was the day I was going to start doing all those things I think will enable me to feel the way I want to feel. I was going to go to the gym, was going to cut sugar, dairy, and grains out of my diet for two weeks, was going to spend two hours working to begin to bring some order out of my overfilled living space. I was going to make a list and check everything off and look at the list at the end of the day and feel the sweet sense of accomplishment that lets me know I've taken the first steps on the yellow brick road. 

It was the rebellious teenager who showed up for work today, though. The one who does not like to be told what to do.

I spend a lot of time coming up with strategies to get things done. Take today. Having got up later than I'd wanted to and realizing my plans were not going to go as intended, especially since I still had food in my fridge that did not fall into the guidelines I had established, and I hate to throw out food, I decided to eat all my "bad" food so I could start fresh another day. To tell the truth, the food is not actually bad, it's just not sugar, dairy, and grain free. And I definitely did not feel like going to the gym, so that was easy to let go of. The start on my decluttering, though? Nope. Not that either. But I did not want the whole day to be an utter loss. 

Writing in my morning journal, I noted,

"When I make these big plans, I tend to overwhelm myself and freak myself out. I need to dial that kind of thing back. Little things. Small steps. Here I am, Monday morning on a day when I was going to make a 'brand new start' and I've lost confidence in my abilities. Plus, it's hot. Already 80 degrees at 9:30 in the morning. I do need toothpaste, toilet paper, and light bulbs, though. I do need to do the dishes." And the list went on. Little things I needed to do that, if I could accomplish all or most of them, would feel like a big win. 

So here is the strategy I used to get everything done.   

I needed to go to the laundromat to wash my towels. I know. I know. How could someone my age live without a washer and dryer? Okay. Maybe not the best decision I've ever made, but about three years ago I decided to spend less on rent in order to travel more. I also thought moving into a tiny apartment would force me to deal with my stuff. The travel's been totally worth it, but the trips to the laundromat are a pain. 

Back to the strategy.

There was a time I used to take a book and sit for two hours in the laundromat while the laundry washed and dried. No more. No more. I use those minutes to get a lot done. 

And the list.

Wash the dishes. Leave to go put towels in the washer. (I have 23 minutes.) Go to the bank, stop at the store and pick up my three items. Go back and put the towels in the dryer. (I have 35 minutes.) Run home and put the store items away, replace the bulbs, and do several small tasks around the house that will clear the space a bit. Go back and fold the towels, come home, put them away. 

Check. Check. And check. 

In a mere two hours I'd handled all my errands for the day, some household chores, and even had a conversation with my son and planned a get together for later in the week to see Solo, which we missed a couple of weeks ago when we'd hoped to see it. All before Noon, after having got up later than I'd expected to because I was up late last night after writing in the evening and getting my second wind. 

I spent the afternoon with calendar commitments and even managed to make a beautiful, and healthy, dinner while writing. In the afternoon. So I'll be able to go to bed early enough that I'll be in dreamland before my second wind comes. I made a list and crossed everything off. I feel great. It's not what I'd planned to do when I was in my extravagant mind space, but for a Monday I got amazing work done. And all without even realizing I was doing so much. 

I have no idea why a long to-do list freaks me out. Or why I don't think I can do everything I want, or think I need, to do. It just feels really good to feel accomplished instead of feeling like I did not do enough. 

Learning how to work with yourself well is such a loving thing to do. I think many of us put so much expectation onto ourselves that we often live unhappy, dissatisfied, disappointing lives. 

Or we might just not think as well of ourselves as we deserve to.




The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Seems like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.

My Heart Is Full

It's Sunday evening and it feels like a miracle that I am writing. I've spent most of the afternoon sprawled on the couch.

I spend Sunday mornings in the pulpit, and these days preaching feels like a heavier-than-usual responsibility. I'm finding similar themes and challenges here and there -- showing up, choosing to be present, engaging the task courageously.

We live in tough times. Maybe all the times are tough, but these times feel tougher than most I've lived through. I want to share a feel good message. For people who come looking for sanctuary to be glad they've come. I also want to support those who are engaging the powers and addressing the heartbreaking circumstances of life. Finding the right balance between staying present to and naming the challenges of our times and staying present to and naming the succor offered by the spiritual life is sometimes difficult. It's so much easier to identify and speak to what is challenging. It's so much harder to identify and speak to what is uplifting. On the other hand, it can be tempting to ignore what's hard and to fall into disconnected spiritual conversation. 

A friend has been talking with me lately about something called spiritual bypass. I think there are a lot of people who are struggling with this. Psychologists describe it as a defense mechanism through which we distract ourselves from what is hard, or unbearable or heartbreaking, in life. A classic example of this is how some spiritual and religious practitioners counsel people to not put too much thought or attention into this "earthly realm" because it is "the eternal" that is what is real - that this life is illusion.  

Clearly that is crap.

Life is real. The consequences of how we live are real. Our suffering, and the suffering of others, is real. Children being separated from parents at the southern border of the United States is real and it has real consequences. Including having traumatized more than 12,000 children. A government trying to sell a false narrative around draconian policies is real. The hardhearted responses of some people to the humanitarian crisis created by all this are real. 

And yet, to focus only on the negative is just as destructive as a false positivity is. 

To do that would leave us feeling heartbroken and disempowered. We need to harness as much optimism and positivity as we can in order to be able to show up, to choose to be present, and for courageous engagement. In order to be warriors in the spiritual battle that must be engaged before we can engage the temporal battle.

Spiritual practice is always about enabling us to live more deeply, more fully, in more embodied and connected ways. 

About checking in rather than checking out.

And so, at 7:45 pm I dragged myself off the couch and sat down at my laptop. I hit "new post" and I face the blank page. I close my eyes and soften my defenses so that I can be truthful as I begin to type. So that I can be truly present. So that I can show up for myself and for those who might take the time to read what I write. I look up periodically and notice the color changing in the skies. Today it's gone from blue to grey, with very little variety between them. But when I look carefully, I notice that some deeper grey begins to appear, bringing depth and texture. The verdant summer foliage frames the sky and reminds me of the greening of the earth. That's something I can count on. It gives me purchase upon which to stand. 

Those grey ribbons of cloud are now softening to pink. Wild color and beauty come. And I've shown up, so I can see it. 

My heart is full. 








The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months of thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.

The First Thing I Notice

Today I'm writing in the morning.

A new decision. 

The first thing I notice is it's hot in the kitchen with the morning sun streaming in. I have the shades down so my view is of closed shades. Except for the window in the middle of the wall of windows. The one in the door. There's no shade there. So no wide-open view of sky for me today. Although...if I look up to my right I can see the sky from another window. And trees framing it. But I don't move my chair to make that my primary view because I don't want to look at the house next door. 

So, writing much earlier in the morning will give me a cool room with a view.

On summer days I tend to move through the house with the sun, opening and closing shades to moderate the temperatures. I don't use air conditioning unless I absolutely have to. I prefer fresh air. 

I've opened the shade with the view of the treetops framing the skies. The sun has moved enough that I can do that. So it just may be a good time to write after all. View wise.

I know people who put their writing desks against walls that they either leave blank, fill with a vision board, rotate a curated collection, or have a single, lovely piece of art. I have always had my writing desk in front of a window. I like to look outside into a beautiful, natural scene. When I lived in a home I owned, I usually sat outside to write in a beautiful natural setting. When I go away for a writing trip, I set up so I can write in nature. 

Writing for me is not so much work as it is an extension of my belonging to the natural world around me.

So I have to be honest here. I haven't put fingers to keyboard in more than ten minutes. That insight has caught me by surprise. And I'm finding myself wanting to sit with it awhile. I'm just not really sure what to say after that. I'm noticing myself applying my Natalie Goldberg writing practice skill of "keep going, keep your pen moving" tool. Even if it means writing what's in your head about your process rather than what you were writing about. The idea is that what needs to come will eventually come. 

But something within tells me it's time to stop and to just let that be. That this part of my writing today is finished. 

That I've found what I came for today.

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.

Seeing in the Dark

I'm still writing at night.

The sun set about a half hour ago and the sky is beginning to darken. It's as if my writing self has turned on and I'm primed for time here with the blank page. There must be something for me in these evening forays so I'm going to go with it. I've noticed recently that writing at night messes with my sleep. I don't get to bed by ten, so I'm up even later than I might be because of a second wind I get when I'm not on my way to dreamland by ten. Writing opens my mind up like a lens aperture. 

A bat just flew across the darkening sky.

These days I'm writing at my kitchen table because this room has walls of windows and my view is of the tops of trees and wide open sky. As the sun goes down, the skies are filled with wild color that gently fades into softer colors. Right now there are the most unusual shades of blue-grey that paint the whole landscape. 

Who could imagine there could be so many shades of blue-grey?

The trees are barely discernible now, but I can still see them. I can see the clouds. Everything looks like a canvas of shadow.

I'm wondering if this night writing is training me to see in the dark.

To discern subtleties.

Even now as we are almost at full dark, I can discern the shapes of what is familiar. The trees that frame the sky. All of this framed by my window. And as I look up, I notice many layers of framing that take me into a deeper focus of a wider vista. 

This feels like a true metaphor for the writing life. 

There is a river beyond. I can't see it when the trees have their leaves. But in winter when everything is stark and bare, I can stand at the window and watch the waters flow by in the distance. A shimmering blue-grey ribbon. At night, the lights of Trenton illuminate the dark, and the traffic that flows by on the road by the river creates movement in an otherwise still seasonal landscape. 

It's interesting to notice that what you can see in one moment is different than at another. How our view is defined by the movements of the sun, the moon, the stars. Tonight the night still feels moonless even though a slender sliver of crescent moon sets just after the sun does. I didn't see her tonight, but I know she's there. 

Over on the other side of the house, below the treeline. 

This writing journey is taking me into some of the lesser-traveled landscapes of my soul. Perhaps even some of the darker edges. The quality of the dark is as subtle as the early summer sky in the hours after sunset. Liminal space. I am between one thing and another. 

Perhaps as the moon's light waxes over the next few weeks, I'll be able to see the features of this landscape more clearly. 

Until then, I'm seeing in the dark.   

The Summer of Self-Love is a daily writing practice birthed June 1, 2018 as a container for harnessing three months for thriving. The goal at the end is to host a dinner party. Sounds like an odd Hero's Journey, doesn't it? Most of them usually are.