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The Big Beautiful

“John,” I say to my 8 year old who stands on the other side of our green like the sea waves of a counter top, “what word would you use to describe me?”

“What!?” the kid exclaims as he looks at me with saucer on-the-spot eyes.

My husband snickers beside me and freezes. He leans on the counter, chin in hand and ellbow resting with gravity. He tilts his head at John and I can almost hear his silent wonderment of, “How is this kid going to pull off an answer here???”

I ignore my husband and focus my curiosity on poor unsuspecting John.

He pauses with an “Oh no” face. Takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes and waits.

“Shake your head like you’re clearing an etch-a-sketch,” I counsel ever-so-helpfully.

His eyes pop open and glow with certainty, He connects light to light as he looks at me.

“And.” 

He says this word with clarity and conviction.

I smile. Joy explodes from inside out to be Seen by this wise Being in a little boy’s shell.

My husband meanwhile throws his hands up in the air and, again, I can almost hear him in his inner musing, “If ONLY he could feed ME this stuff!”

And.

Well, yes. And is Me. I Am All of It. Just as You are All of It. Just as this Earth is All of It. Just as the seasons are All of It. Just as 7.7 billion of us are each and every one, All of It.

It.
The achy and throbbing of loss.
The light and airy of happy.
The hot and prickly of mad.
The spacious and steady of joy.
More…. more… more…

I am – We are – All of It.

And.

Contentment is not static. It is dynamic as the years, the seasons, the days, the minutes. Contentment is joy regardless of the landscape we are passing through.

Contentment is letting It All in. No man left behind. Our wholeness expanding by each additional minute of this life experience.

If you are ready to explore your Wholeness, I would love to work with you. Whether it be by privates, an upcoming fall retreat, or pre-study for my 2020 teacher training, there is so much of you that awaits your attention.

And in that beautiful More of You awaits indescribable contentment, joy and gratitude regardless of the moment in play.

I would be honored to be one of your guides. Come along – let’s explore.

Be well,
Rachel

Take Me Down

I have procrastinated until the 11th hour on this message to you all. Even as I write, I can feel the sinuses below my eyes pulsing, the left side of my jaw subtly aching, and my right temple alive with some kind of little sharp stabbing thing.

I feel exhausted. For a multitude of reasons known and ever more unknown, I am exhausted in this moment.

I say to 6 year old Ruthie standing beside me, “Can you tell me what I should write?”

“About what?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Then I pause…

With that acknowledgment, I also know.

I’m in my not knowing space.

It is a space with which I am familiar. It is a gift of a space as it means I’m not limited by my likes or dislikes, my preferences or avoidances, or a plethora of other boxes that we tend to put around our contentment.

It can simultaneously (and not surprisingly) also be a scary space as not knowing is huge. It is vast. It is infinite.

I am grateful that it is a space where I have learned to ride the moment because the moment is ever changing and a mystery constantly in play. Unfolding. Unwinding. Revealing what Is in exchange for what we think should Be.

I don’t have words to share with you because I am a blank slate right now. I am riding through space at whatever crazy speed this earth flies (67,000 mph according to a Google search).

I am in the place where I’m riding some epic waves of feeling – many are towering and mighty in power. And I am getting sucked under some – thrown for a tumble or two before coming up for air. And as a breather at times, I am catching some smaller and sweeter waves – glimpses of simplicity of the Now in children, breeze, birds and sunshine.

And to support myself in the place of not knowing, I need Space and Rest. I need stillness and dear friends. I need sunshine and the mourning dove. I need trust and surrender.

I have faith that each will continue to meet me in the moment that I need it.

Now is the moment to serve me, to care for me, to love me deeply. I shall do so. And if closing your eyes for a moment and sending your compassion my way is an option, I accept it with open arms.

And, closing my eyes in this moment, I send the same to you.

I send my gratitude for any kindness you share with the world today,
I send my compassion for your pain and suffering,
and I send my deep trust in your skillful navigation of your own dear and beautiful life.

Be well,
Rachel

Quiet Messenger

It is Monday afternoon and I pause in the parking lot of my office. A conscious infusion of Being between seeing clients and getting into my car to return to kiddos. The bright morning sunshine has faded but the hints of spring are in the buds of the trees, the back and forth of the birds, and the brush of the breeze. I close my eyes to feel it all. To allow my Self to be embraced by the pulsing rhythm of life that always surrounds me.

As I rest in a halt of the doing, a tightening in my chest and a knot in my belly roll in. A thought slinks in emerging from his camouflage. It is small and meek and afraid to form words to match with the sensations that have just arisen. But it presses on with courage and knowing. It knows I need to hear what it has to say. And so, it escapes into the acoustics of my inner being:

“This day… the air, the sounds, the smells… it feels like the day Thomas died.” 

In response to this observation, a heavy, thick arm reaches up with panic and overwhelm from the depths of unknown sorrow. I allow it to come toward me. I feel the mismatch of soft air on my outer skin against the inner body anguish wrenching upward in alternating claw marks.

There is room for all of it. Let it wash in, let it run through, feel what Is.

The glory of the power of nature outside meets nature inside.

As I continue to Be still – feeling what is and open to whatever will come next – more arrives. This time a different spring of crystalline knowing. A quiet, soft cooling wind blowing through the heat of my grief fire:

“Yes. And Thomas is not dying today.”

Right. That’s right. He is not dying today.

A rush of relief. The grip in my chest bursts free. The tightness in my upper back explodes into electricity and dissipates throughout the extremities of my body. I feel my feet again. Peace sits quiet and still at the center of my sadness.

I am back here. And here is good. Here is a place of honoring past, present and future through all of the hard and beautiful that has gifted my life.

Wisdom is soft. Wisdom is supple. Wisdom is simple. Wisdom is not sharp or gripping or complex. Wisdom is clear. Wisdom is spacious. Wisdom is forgiving. Wisdom is light.

And most magical, wisdom is patient. She will wait for us to let her in. When the grip lets go, we will always find her waiting.

Take good care,
Rachel

 

’20-21 PRY Teacher Training

I considered not sending this note in this way. The doubts abound:
“What if they don’t understand the program?”
“What if I’m not explaining how it can benefit them?”
“What if I didn’t include enough about how I teach asana differently?”
What if… what if… what if….

But then, I received and read my teacher trainees’ weekly reflections. And for, oh, roughly the 24th time (because this was their 24th weekly reflection), I sat so very still in awe of these humans exploring Being.
I couldn’t hold them back from a world deeply in need of their innate gifts.

So, come along fear and doubt. I can hold your hands and we’ll go ahead together.

Some of you will read what follows and go, “Oh… how interesting. I want to know more.”

Some of you will slide over the words with scanning eyes and close the email and move quickly onward into your day of plenty.

Some of you will lodge it as a needling thought. But it will go to sleep in part of your brain. Waiting for another time. Perhaps a latter prod from me. Or from another part of your world.

Yet it will be there tucked away. Waiting for you. Once you are ready to return and to give it your loving attention.

Now it is time to share what I wish to share. And for you to receive as you need to receive.

Over four years of training to become a Yoga Therapist, I fell in love with my body and its quirks and blips. I fell in love with the handful of roots that grow my infinite thoughts. I fell in love with the upspring of emotions that color my Being.

All of them. Every single one is worth loving. Every single one is worth honoring.

Because each of them is part of Whole me.

Which is also why I was pulled to create my own 200 hour teacher training. I saw that most introductory teacher trainings were about the poses. And some are about the history and philosophy. And some are about both.

But very few – none that I knew of – were about the Being and the hard, hard, hard practical work of loving your whole self in yoga – a state of union – between the body’s objective sensations, the mind’s thoughts and emotions, and the weave that brings them all together.

In September, I launched my teacher training. Along with my dear friend and co-teacher, Susan Jackson, RYT500, we’ve watched four beautiful humans meet themselves in a Whole new way. I am immensely proud of these individuals for their dedicated work. They have the typical 180 in-person hours of training that are required by Yoga Alliance (and thus will all be certified 200 hour Registered Yoga Teachers at the completion of the program), but they also have over 140 additional non-contact hours of home based work that they are doing.

In this home work (and hopefully home play) of self-reflection, learning biomechanics (how joints are moving to create the poses), feeling what they feel on the mat and beyond, taking classes, observing classes, and teaching classes, they go WAY above and beyond what I’ve seen required in any other 200 hour program.

We have two individuals that were already certified as yoga teachers but wanted to learn more AND differently. As did our first time 200 hour trainees. The class spans three generations – an invaluable gift of varying insights and curiosities. They have current experience with grandchildren, empty nesters, and small children. They have work (and life) experience in corporate, public policy, education, and bodywork. They knit. They sew. They hike. They sit and drink chai.

And then there is the stuff that makes me pause right now and smile a knowing smile.

They are silly. They are introspective. They are scared. They are happy. They are sad. They are fearful. They are nervous. They are courageous. They are tough. They are resilient. They are smart. They are curious. They are compassionate. They are. They are. They are.

(Oh, did I mention that they are GREAT dancers?)

It is not a romantic ride of a teacher training. It is bumpy and curvy and even grinding at times because they are doing new work. And new work takes skill as well as attention in order to transform into familiarwork.

But man, the view can be spectacular from that drive. Spectacular when the landscape of the moment opens to your eye. When stillness meets you in the midst of loud. When understanding settles in beyond the chaos of your anger. When surrender greets you somewhere behind the darkness of your solitude.

My heart swells with the hard and beautiful work these individuals are doing to understand how their bodies move biomechanically, what is and what is not real within those bodies, and how their thoughts and emotions intertwine in that dance.

And the fact that they will get to share their wholeness with others as teachers afterward? Well, that was just an audible exhale of giddiness from the center of my chest. (To which my son sitting beside me questioned, “Are you okay?!”)

Only 6 months into their 12 month training, these yoga teachers already know how to see themselves and others with softer eyes, how to be with a class and not just stand in front of a class, how to think about poses and body movement in an analytical way, and how to feel what they feel and let it authentically infuse their teaching. And they still have 6 months to go.

They are amazing.

And more so, they are learning day by day how amazing they actually are.

I’d like to invite you to consider coming along for the scenic hike of our next class which will run from March 2020 – February 2021. If you’ve ever read the children’s book “Going on a Bear Hunt,” this year long program may feel most similar to that: swishy meadows, splashy rivers, thick mud, dark forests, swirling snowstorms… and sunshine. Such radiant sunshine.

My chosen way of training teachers is different than the “normal”, there is no doubt. My chosen way takes courage and fortitude. It takes persistence and curiosity. It takes a leap of faith straight into the center of you. And in doing so, you have the opportunity to arrive at a place where your impact of Being with your life and all those whom you touch – students and beyond – can be drastically different.

I do hope you’ll consider coming with us next year.

Please email me to request program information and to setup a phone chat to talk about next steps for you in the application process. Depending upon your experience with me, the steps of the process will look different. I’m looking forward to meeting this next group, to sharing what I have to offer, and to learning all they have to teach me.

I would love to talk with you if you are ready, Rachel@PureResilienceYoga.com

Take good care,
Rachel

Coming Home

“What did you learn in Hawaii!?”
“How was your trip?”
“What was it like with your teachers?”

hmm… how to use a limited supply of words to convey the infinite rainbow of feeling is ever the adventure. Let’s explore.

I am now back at my house. I am back with my husband and kiddos. I am back with my kitchen and familiar cooking supplies. I am back with my co-teacher and our teacher trainee group. I am back with my office and my dear clients. I am back with carpool and grocery shopping.

And it doesn’t feel that different from Hawaii.

Sure, it is cooler here than it was on Maui. It is louder in my house here than it was in my Air BnB. It is less sweet in the air here than it was in the botanical gardens that I visited.

But the stillness of the moment is in both places. The joy of life is in both places. The heartbreak of life is in both places. And the learning and watching is in both places.

It is in all places.

This morning, I picked up our dear neighbor’s son for carpool. My 5 year old, Ruthie, was sitting beside the open window inches away from my dear neighbor friend. As I began to say goodbye and to haul off our combined crew to school, Ruthie emerged from her quiet observing of our conversation to ask neighbor friend,
“May I show you something?”

This neighbor friend is wise beyond the task at hand. She does not rush. She does not rush others. She is curious. She is open. She is present.

‘Yes, I would love that,” she replied to Ruthie.

“Hold on just a minute, I have to find it…” said Ruthie as she dug into a bottomless zipper pouch of her backpack. I was a tad irritated with this delay. A tad curious. And a tad in awe of neighbor friend’s stunning patience.

Ru shuffled, pushing chapstick and pencils and wads of paper aside, ‘”It’s in here somewhere…” she murmured. “There!” she softly exclaimed. And she pulled out a toe sized, pink plastic teddy bear charm with a tiny blue rhinestone in the belly and a two inch broken beaded lanyard attached. She handed it to dear neighbor friend in silence.

“Oh,” said neighbor friend, “That is lovely, Ruthie.”

“I got it from the Woo-Hoo Wagon at school,” Ruthie said with her signature gentle demeanor yet proud and secure delivery. Then her face dropped, “But it broke already – so I can’t put it on my backpack.”

In my mind ran the rough edged voice, “Man, that sucks. Guess we’ll trash that.” Luckily I’ve learned to stay quiet (a bit more often) when it isn’t my moment.

Meanwhile, neighbor friend tilted her head and looked at Ruthie as she held the charm lightly, “You know what, Ruthie… I think I can fix this today if you’d like. I can get out my tiny drill and put a new hole in it. Would you like that?”

Ruthie lit up. I mean lit up. The sun rose in her face and she shone upon the world.

It was glorious to behold this freeze frame of life.

My neighbor friend saw Ruthie, offered her own authentic kindness and connected across space with my dear girl.

And that, my friends, was Hawaii.

It was freeze frame after freeze frame of the glorious connections between humans.

Across time and space, I found that there was support and love available everywhere I was willing to open my eyes and ears to it. In a place where I knew no one, I found full acceptance. I found an ever expanding family of humans Being. I found community and deep connection in our shared hard and the inevitable joy that can sprout within the hard when you allow both the rain and sun to infuse it. I found the grace that emerges when we can honor one another exactly as we are without fear, pity or the desire to fix each other.

Watch and listen.
Watch and listen here.
Watch and listen there.
Watch and listen, Be, and evolve.

When our eyes are open and attuned to it, family abounds and love penetrates deeply through the shadows of fear. Or the shadows of need. Or the shadows of doubt.

My Ruthie heard through the silence a person who could see her very real 5 year old disappointment. And that person had the skilled hands of a craftsman and the open heart of a healer. May each of us embrace our own skilled hands and open heart. And may we share those gifts copiously in our own self-compassion and in service of others.

That, my dear friends, is what I found in Hawaii.

Take good care,
Rachel

Spreading

John again this round.

On Saturday, my 8 1/2 year old rode his bike alone around the neighborhood for the first time. Big stuff in a small pond of a life.

He awoke and greeted us with the feel (and show) of heavy, sharp and hard in his body and Being. He grumbled about – discontent with his discontent in the world. After brushing his teeth and running down the stairs to find his two younger sisters playing with the dollhouse – something he definitely did not feel like doing – his body collapsed even further with a sigh of great gusto.

I looked at him and wondered silently, “Is there anything for me to do here? Or is this his?”

To which a soft voice from deep within whispered to me “Bike alone.”

uh… okay.

I turned to the husband and told him the idea. Got a nod. Turned back to the kid.

“John, would you like to go on a bike ride alone?”

“What? Really? You mean it?”

“Yup. Up to the stop sign.” I say.

“Like the one where we turn to pickup Nathaneal for carpool, right?”

“No, babe. The one at the top of the hill. Then you can go around the block if you’d like.”

“REALLY!?”

A supernova for this boy. You could see his brain BLOW with disbelief of the parenting shackles loosening. Off he went.

And I watched him leave. I watched his heavy and hard shapeshift in an instant to fast and light.

Right now, I feel a bit like how I perceived John to feel that morning… pre- bike ride.

I leave for Hawaii tomorrow. I attend a Compassionate Care in Death & Dying workshop over the weekend with teachers that I cannot see anywhere else. Because they don’t go anywhere else. I think this workshop could be just as appropriately titled,

Learning to hang out with each other
(It’s all kind of the same thing if we want to get real about it.)

As I’ve taken space to feel over the last month, I’ve seen many layers of this trip. In this very moment, here are a few from my rainbow.

I feel the magnetism of the choice to go “so far” to learn about something “so hard” and to be “so alone” wanting to pull me in. What was such a clear feeling in October is now yet another “What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

I feel what it means to take this trip. To do this study. What has landed me here?

Thomas has died.
Those of us still here have (new?) cracks.

I am sad. I miss how things were.
I mourn for what was.

Dark. Heavy. Shadows.

And there is more.

After John returned from his two loops around the block, he was winded. He was also illuminated in the same vein of his beamingly proud pre-school pictures . He had skipped from one planet in his universe to another.

“How do you feel?” I asked him.

“Free!” he exclaimed without hesitation.

“What qualities do you feel in your body?” his yoga therapist mother inquired.

“Light! Open!”

I drank it in. His taste of a shift. Me seeing he would never know Light and Open without having known Dark and Closed. Me seeing his wings expand a titch further in this world. Me seeing his joy to discover more of Him.

“I kept looking back in case there was a car!” he exclaimed.

“Trust your ears,” I say. “You pay great attention. You’ll hear what you need. You’ll know if a car is coming.”

And I hear myself. Talking to him. Talking to me.

This is a trip of trust. Of Greg solo with our kiddos. Of my courage to be ever more alone in the hard stuff. Of a return to the islands that I last visited when my then babe niece and toddler nephew lived on Oahu with my sister and brother-in-law.

It is a trip of caring and loving for me. And for all the others that I touch. Family, friends, clients – so many known and infinitely more unknown. Coming and going. Now and next. Here and then.

Will it bring a taste of free once more for me? Will it weave the light and open into an ever more contrasted braid with the heavy and dark? This stepping out on my own as John did on his own? I believe it will. We shall see.

I know my shadows want me to see my fear. “Stay away! This is uncomfortable! This is BAD because it makes you feel bad!!!”

I appreciate you, Fear. The gift of protection that you wish to offer me. The gift of limited love that you have for me.

And I won’t be held down by you. I will feel you for your offerings. And I will also step forward into the Ever More.

Because I know what else there is too. Faith in this deeply felt choice. Trust. Love. My good attention.
And I will go to discover what awaits. Just like John.

I’m coming. Here today. There tomorrow.

Take good care,
Rachel

To See Anew

My New Year’s resolution is… to jump rope.

My 8 year old son and I are doing this together. We started yesterday and we did it again today. Right now, I want to do 50 jumps per day. But I recognize that some days, I may simply step through the rope a single time. Some days, I may leap through it alternating legs up and down my driveway like a jack rabbit on Pop Rocks. I have absolutely no idea where I’ll be each day or what life will throw at me. But my resolution and intention is to respond to that day with exactly what I have left in my tank. Whether the needle is at empty and I do the single step through or it is at a quarter tank full and I can do a little more, I will listen. And I will respond with love and compassion for where I’m at.

Day in and day out, I want to allow my feet to leave the ground and to meet it once more.

Day in and day out, I want to watch my story unfold beside my husband’s story. Beside each of my kids’ stories. Beside so many whom I love as they write their own stories.

Day in and day out, I want to see the joy within sorrow and the sorrow within joy.

Day in and day out, I want to help others and I want to let others help me.

Day in and day out, I want to feel what I feel and notice when I make myself wrong for it.

Day in and day out, I want to slow down even more. To do nothing even more. And to practice the ancient art of “hanging out” even more.

Day in and day out, I want to support others as they explore deeper meaning and impact in their lives and I want to be supported as I explore deeper meaning and impact in my life.

Day in and day out, I want to see when my fears stop me up and to see when my snowballish striving stops me up.

Day in and day out, I want to listen for more. Ever more. Beyond sight, beyond sound, beyond touch, beyond taste, beyond smell – the Ever More.

This will all unfold as the story ahead unfolds. As the pages turn they will show me the scenes, the characters and the plot lines that hold my intentions thick within their wonder. And in the space between the words, will rest the Feeling. The copious, indescribable, earth shattering, cosmos shaking Feeling of this whole thing called Life.

I don’t have to make it happen. It’s already happening. I just get to sit back, do my work, and watch it all unfold.

Yes, more than anything else. I want to watch it all unfold.

Oh, and for now, I’ll jump rope. John’s intention is to do 5 jumps in a row and he said he’ll see what comes next.

I’m in, kid. I’m in.

With love and admiration for each of you,
Rachel

A Deferential Bow

On this New Year’s Day, I humbly and respectfully share the wisdom of Neil Gaiman. May we all breathe into his skill for translating life into words for sharing.

—-
Excerpt from Neil Gaiman’s Journal, December 31, 2018

Be kind to yourself in the year ahead. 

Remember to forgive yourself, and to forgive others. It’s too easy to be outraged these days, so much harder to change things, to reach out, to understand.

Try to make your time matter: minutes and hours and days and weeks can blow away like dead leaves, with nothing to show but time you spent not quite ever doing things, or time you spent waiting to begin.

Meet new people and talk to them. Make new things and show them to people who might enjoy them. 

Hug too much. Smile too much. And, when you can, love.

—-
And that my friends, is all there is to say about that. May we rest in the peace of infinite New Beginnings.

Take good care,
Rachel

Just This

“What was I thinking?” I say to my husband.

To which he replies, “I think you were feeling. I think the problem is that you’re thinking NOW.”

For a very brief moment, I stop my spin on “Who do you think you are? What do you know anyhow?” in reflection on my offering of a class and gathering for others to share their grief. I see Greg’s simple genius. He is spot on.

In these days prior to the first Christmas with my family yet without my dear nephew in body, I give myself the gift of more quiet space. I sit down with me and settle in to less thoughts and more hearing the birds. I recognize more when I’m breathing but not smelling. I feel aching tired in my upper back. In the center of the space, I feel the magnetic churning within me of,
“How exactly is this Christmas going to go with an elephant in the room?”

And Wisdom responds in quiet and tinkling tones,
“You don’t know.”

Nope, I don’t know. I don’t actually have any idea how it will go.

And so, I sit down in the sounds of the leafblower. The cars driving by. The warmth of my ears and the pulsing in my back and throat. The lingering taste of coconut and spices from a beautiful lunch with dear friends. The lean to my right into fatigue. The gentle numbness of my temples and tongue. The smell of the wooden prop that my computer rests upon winding its way toward me.

When my mind strays, I herd it back to center with an exhale breath and a gentle reminder, “Just this.”

Just this.

I take in here and now. Because that’s what I’ve got. This moment writing you out there. Me sitting in here. And closing the space between.

There is magic in the space between us.

Just this.

Less thinking. More feeling. That will be my love hold this Christmas.

Just this.

I wish you all well as you wrap in the robes of your holiday. And all that it offers you in Grace.

Take good care,
Rachel

Full Up

I tap out right now. I have found immense courage in the wake of grief this year – courage to step out and be ever more seen. Courage to offer programs, classes, and words that stepped onto ground that I thought was untouchable. Courage to love more deeply – and likely to have my heart broken over and over as I invite that love to seep through me.

And sure enough, as I step into new ventures of Being, giving and doing that are offspring of my grief, my heart cracks a little deeper. It seeps a little deeper for the reason that I am at this particular place at this particular time. It grasps back through the past to a life that has completed and to a boy that chose differently than I have. Goo seemingly fills from the tips of subtly aching feet to my chest that feels safest today sucking in on the inhale to my scratchy throat.

I am thick and smushy and a lump of Being right now. Every crevice and cavern within this pulsing body feels full up. And with that fullness, I feel empty of the ever elusive thing we Westerners call “energy.”

And it is beautiful. It is stunning.

Feeling a bit like a bog creature wrapped in this skin of a human, I navigate today weaving in and out of choices for clarity and space. Moment by moment and breath by simple breath. I wake and meditate and move. I have clear broth soup for breakfast and sit with my kiddos. I think of my husband as he travels away from us on a plane. I am snuggled by my daughter and I snuggle her. I drink tea and water. I shop for gifts for my kiddos’ Angel Tree at school and I feel the overwhelm of sights, sounds and more in the store. I make a nourishing ojas milk and cancel a compromised credit card. I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch because that’s my best in that moment (not so clear or spacious but eh – it’s good to be human). I lay on my bed in silence listening to mantra and looking at the trees. I watch the birds on my feeder. I listen to the leaf blowers and see the blue blue sky. I see the fall turning winter winds shower the last remaining leaves over my yard. I buy pizza for dinner because I do not wish to deplete my body’s gas tank anymore. I navigate destruction of my son’s toy by my 3 year old daughter. I lose my stuff with my kids. I finish that blow and get quiet to ride the hot and fiery sensations that echo within. I arrive a bit slower in spin and a tad cooler with the three devil angels. I write to you all who dance with me around this same room called Life.

Hmm… yes. I do believe the bog imagery is spot on. Yet, I’m seeing it’s not so much a bog like creature tucked away inside of me. It’s more the bog itself that rests under my skin. Full, thick, heavy and full of such richness. Such richness of feeling the prism of my life.

I lean in here to the layers of mud, water, and swirling silt in suspension. I am held in the bog. I am embraced here by something as perfect as the trees and as flawless as the sun. In this moment, I rest in wholeness in the bog.

The feeling invites the Being. And the Being allows a deep saturation into the essence of all this Doing.

Wherever you are right now, may you find rest in that place.

Take good care,
Rachel