We gave my nephew a butterfly kit for his fifth birthday.  It’s a bittersweet present.  You watch your tiny larvae hatch, grow into caterpillars, go through a miraculous transformation, take their first flight, and then you have a choice.  Do you let them fly and be free, or do you keep them in their cage, have them longer and ultimately watch them die?

When they were young, my daughters decided to keep their butterflies, and feel the heartache of each life ending. My nephew let all but one be free.  And then deeply experienced the pain from his decision.

These little creatures have very little time on this earth: some species live a week or two; some a year if they are lucky to survive the increasingly difficult migration. It’s a poignant decision for a child to make, knowing that free butterflies live longer than captured ones.  

Don’t we all?  Yes, we should live as freely as we can.  We need to feel the fleeting nature of our own lives; not to despair, but to generate the courage to leave our cage and fly.

I recently attended a writer’s workshop, and was given the prompt:  If I let my life happen . . .

I couldn’t help but think of butterflies.
 
If I Let My Life Happen . . .
There is a butterfly on my shoulder.  Its wings open and close in my ear.  I don’t dare move. Yet, it’s not taking flight. It stays with me up and down the stairs. Not feeling captured or busy but entertained by my running.

Sunshine is a window away.  It knows its direction but won’t go without me. So he is patient.  And I hurriedly finish my work, shortening my list of to do’s enough to fly along.

We touch each piece of God’s beauty that offers nectar.  Feeling into the currents of warm air that take me higher.  No guide needed. Density below, warmth on my wings, and gratitude in my heart.  I take flight before life is over.  It’s fleeting but not too short. No sorrows. No words. No song. No need to despair.

The dust of color from my wings has worn off from full-contact living.  My antennas are slowly losing sensation.  My mouth is dry but smiling.  My flight is sporadic.  I fall away.  

I fall.  
I fly.  
Is there a difference?
Direction is subjective.
I have spread my wings.
My life is whole. 
​

We only had fifteen minutes.  “I think we can do this,” I said as we parked our car in the bus station parking lot.  My husband and I hopped out and headed for a lone boulder in the overgrown grass, with comb and scissors in hand.  Alex needed a haircut before returning to San Francisco from Tahoe.  I’ve been cutting his hair for years.

As I worked diligently to finish before the bus arrived a woman approached us, “I don’t know who you are, where you are from, or what you are doing, but would you please give me a haircut?” 

She went on to explain in a shaky voice that she had lost her house and her husband to cancer ten months ago.  Carmelle was living in her van and was about to collect survivor benefits the next day. 

“I just want bangs like I used to have and this weight off of my shoulders.”

How could I say no? 
 
So she took her place on the rock.  I warned her, “You know I’m not formally trained and the wind is blowing pretty hard.”

“Just do it. Please.  I trust you.”  

Each time I asked her for guidance she replied, “I trust you. Do what you think is right.”

In between the silence and her sharing her story of their loving marriage and her hard knocks, she would break into tears, “I can’t believe you are doing this for me.”

I took a big gulp as I cut four inches away from her eyes. 

“You know I used to have dishwater blond hair.  Can you see my roots?”  

I could see her roots, the hardship of the years in her lined face, and the weight she was carrying being lifted with each inch I took off. 

I gave her a final hug and a wish for a lighter new chapter that matched her hair.  She crossed the parking lot, hopped back into her van, and took a peek into her rear view mirror.  I held my breath.  

Carmelle's wide smile and a big thumbs up are still clear in my mind. 

So is the weight of her desperate request. 

We all carry weight. Most of it is hidden from others; we feel it’s ours alone to bear. That impromptu haircut on the boulder showed me that we all can lift the weight of another. We both needed courage: she needed to step out of the van and ask; I needed to say yes and try.

Then came ease . . . connection . . . support . . . relief and an opening to new possibilities.  How can you lift the weight of another?  How can others support you?

There’s a big difference between looking through the glass at life and being ankle deep in it.

I just came back from one of those big trips you take when you want to feel alive again. You go not just to get a break from your own knee-deep responsibilities. You hope that by stepping away from your life, you will gain clarity . . . new energy . . . new perspective.

I knew it was time for this trip to Vietnam and Cambodia with my husband. I was starting to feel a comfortable distance from life. Running on autopilot; resting in the ease of routine and habitual choices; feeling victim to the pace of my days; procrastinating; observing my life rather than being fully in it. I even felt distant from my own heart.

So off to a far away land. Immediately the heat, smells, sites and flavors woke up my senses. And then my heart broke open . . . seeing the pain of poverty mile after mile . . . yet feeling the peace behind the eyes and the smiles of everyone in my path.  

Each day I had greater desire to get closer to the people, to be deeper in their worlds.  I would look out of the car window at the rice paddies as we sped along, watching the back breaking work of the straw hatted workers, curious about how rice is grown and harvested.  My desire for a perfect photo for my walls shifted to wanting to experience the feeling of being in the rice paddies myself.  I became obsessed with the idea.  But what was I going to do?  Tell our driver to stop the car and march out through the wet fields and saddle up next to a farmer?

Yes. That was what I was going to do.  We were on a small dirt road in the scorching heat of the afternoon.  I found the courage to verbalize my request, “Would it be possible for me to plant some rice?”  Our guide turned his head with a wide grin.  A minute later my shoes were off, and three dark faces with bright bright eyes were welcoming me to join them.  I slowly stepped into the slippery mud and sank to my ankles. A child like energy burst within me as I felt the mud between my toes. I was handed my own bunch of young rice sproutings that had been pulled by hand just to replant them again evenly in order to maximize the harvest. One by one I pushed the small stem deep into the clay like earth, being coached on the right distance between plantings.  The fully clothed ladies cackled under their hats. It was a joyful moment for all of us.  I could have stayed there all afternoon, ankle deep in life.

I’m back now.  Determined to feel the deep texture of my life and the hearts and desires of those in my daily path.  I’m done with the distance that makes us numb to others and keeps life safe and easy.


What distance are you keeping? Why? What might you gain by rolling down the window, getting a little muddy, allowing a new closeness in your life?

It’s hard to predict when you will need to step away. I’ve never been good at anticipating it, but I know how it feels when it arrives.  It’s usually in moments of grappling, discontent, or stress that I’m triggered to step away, without even thinking about the destination. 

It can feel like fleeing, but this urge to move is really the need for new energy.  If you know what energy you need, you will know what direction to step. Sometimes we need to shift into calm. Sometimes we need energy that motivates.  What do you need? 

Step back and contemplate. Think deeply, carefully, and fully. Land in the parts of life you tend to push through, stuff down, or gloss over. 

Step into nature. My yoga teacher Charu Rachlis says it’s always there to help you find the most direct path to your highest self.

Step up and make a decision. Then wear it for a while and see what energy it creates.

Step out of your comfort zone.  Feel the surge of energy that comes from taking a risk, feeling your edge.

Step away, mindfully.  Just stop.  Or go.  Whatever you need to create space for new energy to come in. I stopped writing for a bit.  I felt the need to refuel that tank.  I just spent a long weekend with a dear friend. I needed space from my day to day life. 

And then there’s the Two Step.  I was in a cowboy bar in Dallas last weekend watching the leather boots on the crowded dance floor sliding, twirling, and stomping.  The Two Step is a rhythm of two steps right and one step left.  It’s simple, but requires concentration.  I gave it whirl and it was pure fun! 

When you aren’t sure what step to take, the Two Step always works. Move in the direction of delight! You will receive fresh energy, expansiveness, and a new spring in your step.

It was a rare peaceful moment.  All the day’s work was neatly stacked on my desk and in my mind.  The driving was over. Although dinner was in front of me and my daughter and a friend were madly baking in the kitchen, I found myself sitting on my bed, chatting with a friend behind a closed door.

Our conversation veered from decisions and stresses to emotions and desires. Then Jenna said, “I just want to live a life with peace for my family and for me.”  

Yes.  The sentence sunk in and settled deep.

There is so much buzz about happiness right now: choosing it, raising it, hardwiring it; but I’m voting for peace. Peace has a different quality about it.  It’s a bit more weighty.  I imagine grounding in peace, like lying on the expanse of sand at Ocean Beach.  

We continued to toss around the complexity of our lives and it became apparent to both of us that you cannot chase peace.  The very act of pushing your way towards it removes the prize.

The times when we most intensely seek peace is often when there is an underlying change that needs to happen.  The focus of my decade of corporate change management work was always to move people and organizations through a change as fast as possible with minimal disruption.

But the more I focus on personal change, I understand that sitting in the space of disruption is meaningful time spent, as unpeaceful as it feels.  

This week I spoke with author Dr. Susan Plummer about her new book Deep Change.  She outlines a fascinating seven-stage process on the journey of deep personal change. Right smack in the middle of the journey is the shift of The Stilling:

“Where we arrive at the threshold between our known selves and world and what can feel like nothingness, with no new horizon in sight, suspended between two ways of being. In this state we wait, with our imaginations stilled, open to the unknown yet unaware of what is to come in the future.”

I breathed a sigh of relief while reading these words that put shape to a nebulous unsettling space.  Peace percolates from within our place of deep knowing. You can’t race to or push through or chase after it. Connecting to your powerful inner rudder requires stillness.

And then with your compass in hand, peace can mean action: big, bold, uncomfortable, risky action . . . that embraces the change that's been brewing and brings you that freedom known as peace.

I’ve been slipping in the Wonder department lately . . . all in the name of Ease.  Do you know what I mean? Let me put it this way.

Would you like your life to be easier?

What if I gave you the choice:  Would you rather your life be easier or more wondrous?

What does more wondrous mean to you? I'd love to know.

I have a hunch that the idea of adding wonder to your world upped the ante.  After all, “What’s so great about Easy?”, my favorite yoga teacher Charu often asks.  Yet often we wait for life to ease up before allowing ourselves to think bigger about a more deliciously fulfilling way of living.

When we are faced with ease versus wonder, ease often wins.  A simple example in my own life triggered this topic for me. I faced a ten hour road trip on Labor Day weekend that should have been five.  It almost didn’t happen.  My reward was a midnight shooting star extravaganza while soaking in a natural hot spring pool. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, yet I almost did.  The battle against traffic almost sent me in a U-turn back to life as usual.

And then there are the more meaty parts of life that you may face.  Do you make the investment to get a degree or certification in order to grow in a discipline you love?  Do you quit a job to seek a more fulfilling way to earn and contribute?  Do you move to a different city towards a dream?

I heard an interesting lecture by psychologist Kelly McGonigal, How to Make Stress Your Friend.  She ends by saying, “Chasing meaning is better for your life than avoiding discomfort.”

Somewhere in between weekend plans and life plans there is a space that calls us to move forward.  And when we feel we are moving on autopilot, I believe we have an opportunity to grab the steering wheel towards a more meaningful path.  

So, let’s go back to the questions of ease and wonder.  Let me rephrase them:

What does ease feel like to you?  

Could it be sureness, fulfillment, commitment, energy?

What does wonder feel like to you?

Could it be a sense of promise, mystery, stretching, delight, possibility?

Can you invite in more wonder AND ease, at the same time, just by increasing your ability to connect with these feelings? Can you find the calm and sureness within you to handle life’s grind?  It will give you more capacity for wonder:  to take in the uniqueness of each day; to go after what quietly delights you; to take action in the direction of unknown possibility and reward; to seek your shooting star and feel the awe that awaits you.