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?

My initial reaction was, “I’m too busy to know.”  I didn’t say this out loud.  It felt like an answer that should easily flow.  And the too busy part . . . well, I didn’t want to whine. 

The question was, “What do you want to do on Mother’s Day?”  I have other questions also lined up waiting for an answer. 

What questions are you carrying because you are too busy to drop into that deep place of knowing?

In life there is always something making us busy.  For me the end of school year crazies are putting me in a spin.  But I don’t want to be too busy to know what I want in life.  I don’t want to be too busy to feel the sun, especially on days like today, when it’s begging me to notice it. 

I don’t want to be too busy to...
  Work on big ideas
Celebrate others
  Read
Start important conversations . . . and complete them
  Make love
Hear my child
  Care for my body
Stoke my passions
  Nurture meaningful friendships
Be playful
  Connect with the hearts of others along my daily path

Yep, that’s it.  That’s the answer.  I know what I want to do on Mother’s Day.  How about you?

Blessings,
Amy

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.

Sometimes needs can’t be ignored: a car that doesn’t start, a sick child, an argument, a leaking roof.  This urgent straight forward “tending to” is a constant part of life.

This week I found myself in tune with a different layer of "tending to".  My eyes landed on my silver teapot that hasn’t been polished in a year.  I took an extra moment to look at myself in the mirror and plainly saw the need for a hair appointment.  It was my daughter's birthday and I had a momentary desire to make a cake from scratch rather than out of a box.  As I was standing in line at the dry cleaners I thought about the fact that my mother washed and ironed all of my father’s shirts.

There was a time when tending to life fit.  When silver was polished, cakes were made from scratch and mothers mended. It’s the stuff that in our modern world can feel unimportant or easy to outsource; able to be put off, not mission critical.

Yet everywhere I looked, something was staring back saying, “deal with me”. This part of life can't truly be ignored. You still see it and feel it weighing you down. What keeps calling out to you?

There is a difference between, "dealing with" and "tending to". They have different energies. Can you feel it? To Tend is defined as: To pay attention.

What if you allowed yourself to pay attention to the people and parts in your life that are asking for care, love, time. What if you tended to them without guilt or stress . . . with full breaths that create a sense that it is time well spent?

I decided to let myself be free this week to do some of the little and big things that I dance around, avoiding, week after week. I worked with an amazing rockstar organizer and cleaned up my garage. I dusted the leaves of a plant.  I polished some silver. I mended a sweater. I checked in on a neighbor.

The beautiful part of tending to life, is that life responds and smiles back at you.  Your heart warms. You slow down, nurture, and are nurtured in return. You become more connected with all the parts of life that are there for you: your surroundings, your belongings, your loved ones, your own heart.

What three words described your 2013?  Quickly -- top of mind.  I'd love to know.

On New Year’s Eve, in a circle of friends and family, we took turns seeing what words bubbled up to the surface.  Challenging, exhilarating, progress, complicated, sunny, thankful, persevering were a few.

This morning my own fourth word came forward: Yearning.  Was yearning part of your year too?

Looking back, I had very specific chapters with very specific desires.  I also had an overarching fuzzy sense of yearning that I know sometimes felt restless or stagnant; other times it propelled me forward, even though I can’t name where I landed. Yearning can be intense. It produces energy inside of us that seeps into the world.

This week my yoga teacher, Sean Haleen, shared the yogic philosophy that we are constantly creating, sustaining or destroying. I started to think about which category yearning falls into.  

I believe yearning can hold any of these energies.  Looking back on your year, did you act on any desires that brought something positive into the world or brought good energy to those around you?

How much energy did you expend to protect or maintain something about yourself or something sacred to you.  Most importantly, can you see when going towards your yearnings were at the cost or destruction of others?

Let me give you a simple example. This week I had a huge yearning to clean, purge and start fresh in the new year.  I became more and more intense as I pushed my daughters to be a part of the one-day house cleansing.  It was a very real yearning that had been brewing within me.

My youngest daughter knows when this yearning surfaces and always asks that I at least let her shut her bedroom door while she cleans (so she doesn’t absorb my energy). I couldn’t help myself.  I had to check her progress.  I knocked to ask permission.  On her dresser top, she strategically piled a bunch of her stuff onto a tray.

I eyed a hammer and gently asked, "Aria do you need this hammer or can I take it downstairs?"

She barked back with a twinkle in her eye, "Yes I need my hammer to hit you over the head when I don't like your parenting style!" 

My desire to create a fresh start, was actually more destructive than productive. The only thing I was creating was stress in my daughter.

This is a natural time to start moving your yearnings forward with fresh hope and energy.  

My wish for you is to live out your yearnings in ways that feel empowering, purposeful, fun, and brave . . . to live out your yearnings in ways that mindfully feed life around you and nurture what you treasure most.

Blessing in 2014!

I entered the cab, my family tumbling in behind me, and saw a well-loved guitar resting in the front seat.  My heart instantly warmed.  I wasn’t sure why.  

We pulled away from the airport curb and the taxi driver immediately put on his personal mix CD of slow latin luscious music.  He gave my husband a few bars to settle in and then handed him an egg shaker (mini maraca).  In a Russian accent he said,  “Go ahead and try.”

It was one AM.  We had been traveling for fifteen hours.  Taking a rhythm test was hardly the mood in the front seat. My girls and I silently waited to see what Alex would do.  He started slowly . . . shake shake tap.  Shake shake tap. Nope, that wasn’t it.

Tap shake tap. Tap shake tap.  Closer, but not quite with the music.

The large bald head behind the wheel nodded along and then gave encouragement, “It’s harder when the music is slow.”

We all listened more intently with this new knowledge and with the second shaker Mr. Cabbie pulled out to add more rhythm to the melody.

I had to try.  It was harder to go slow than I thought.

I went to bed knowing that we had received an important message.  In the morning I understood it.

Most of us just finished a wonderful period of Thanksgiving slow. Lazy days without routine or rhythm.  Now comes the first week of December.  We will be tempted to dive in, fast paced, in our normal rhythm that is easy because it’s the beat we always play.  But what if we were to consciously try to find a slower rhythm as we begin and end our days. 

It will be harder to maintain the rhythm at first.  But we will be more focused.  More expansive.  More creative and kind.  

Take out your imaginary shaker and try this song for practice.  You can do it!

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.