Personal Growth Archives - Page 3 of 8

March 22, 2021February 12, 2022

News from Jules | 03.22.2021 | Your Simple Joys

There is something reassuring that spring weather is as unpredictable as a teenager’s shifting moods. The unpredictable is predictable.

It’s a constant balancing act—recalibrating every few minutes to a new reality. Such is spring.

As I studied Balance throughout the last four seasons, I was reminded of this constant: Such is life every season.

Last Saturday, there was one minute when all was in balance: 12 hours of day, 12 hours of night. After that one minute, the balancing act continued. We crossed the Spring Equinox into a new year.

After 20 minutes of waffling on how to dress for the weather a couple Sundays ago, I resigned myself to being ill-prepared for something and finally left the house for a walk with my friend. I did bring a hat, I didn’t bring gloves. I did wear a raincoat, I didn’t bring an umbrella. I seriously considered sunglasses. And, of course, I had my mask.

Twenty minutes into our walk while we were talking about the pros and cons of various weather apps ironically, a huge grey cloud rolled toward us and the wind immediately picked up.

“Uh oh. We better take cover.”

We huddled under some tall bushes for the next 20 minutes while the heavy cloud cried its way over us.

By the time we wandered into Columbia Park a couple miles away the sun emerged and we were carrying our coats. Eventually, back at the coffee shop where we started, more grey clouds were rolling in. Too immersed in our conversation, we kept sitting out in the open as the rain started plopping on the picnic table. Then dinged as it quickly became hail.

We paused for a few moments to look around wide-eyed as the hail grew bigger, faster and louder. So we talked louder. While I was busy shouting, another part of my mind marveled at being so exposed to the elements, sitting right in the middle of a storm.

Of course, we were soaked. But, how could one experience this from indoors?

Then, I watched the grey clouds move on to bombard another part of our North Portland neighborhood. There was a striking Yin/Yang division where the blue sky and grey clouds collided. Just as quickly as the hailstorm appeared, we noticed a rainbow.

“Wait, is there another one? Right next to it—in parallel?”

A car stopped in the middle of the street to ask us: “Are you seeing what we’re seeing?”

Yes! There were two indigo and purple arches wide enough for many Care Bears to slide down. And then a third higher up in the sky for the Leprechauns too!

Simple joys enjoyed on a simple afternoon of mostly doing nothing.

This is what I want to learn about in this next cycle of growth: simplicity.

So, I’m curious:

What does simplicity mean to you?
What gets in the way?
What enables it?

And, if you want extra credit: What’s a recent moment that felt so beautifully simple?

I’m all ears.

May you linger in amazement this week.

Love,
Jules

I share a lesson learned about integrity every Monday. Sign up for delivery right to your inbox. Want more? There’s lots more lessons learned here on my blog, so have fun exploring and commenting about your own insights!

March 15, 2021February 12, 2022

News from Jules | 03.15.2021 | Healing Reimagined Part 3

Just like healing, retreat is a process. Unlike healing, retreat often feels too nourishing to conclude. But, the power of retreat is in the promise of return.

The promise of building, of becoming what we want to be. Better yet, what we truly are.

Not just bringing back the truth and the insights, like perfectly whole sand dollar souvenirs, but actually applying them in life. Moving forward into a new life.

Away from the constant heartbeat of the waves crashing onto the Oregon coast and living in our human-made world of buildings, streets, cars, nonnative plants, out-of-season food. Only two weeks of being back in the city since my last retreat and yet, it’s always so easy to forget.

Our true nature. Especially our inherent adaptability—the ability to adjust to new conditions—due to a little-known process. We learned homeostasis is our internal process toward maintaining balance. A steady state. Like at the playground, standing in the middle of the Teeter Tooter until that miraculous, temporary moment when it’s even and flat. The rest of the time it wobbles up and down, is a different—maybe even more miraculous—process:

Allostasis is the process of constantly adapting by proactively “anticipating needs and preparing to satisfy them before they arise,” according to Wikipedia.

In other words, remaining stable by being variable. And maintaining stability through change, is a fundamental process through which organisms actively adjust to both predictable and unpredictable events.

This is the way our body works. This is the way an ecosystem works. This is the way the planet works. This is the way the universe works.

Throughout the past year, I’ve written about my own revelations from when the pandemic began, when Election results finally came in, when I felt the injustice at my front door, when we started to feel hope on Inauguration Day. It’s been a huge year of growth. I will remember and carry these lessons forth especially about balance. But, will humanity?

Will we let this past year be just another newsworthy year? Going down in history:

A brief “unprecedented” interruption of what we thought was normal life. Instead of an inevitable crisis at worst, a disruptive catalyst at best.

Was last week the anniversary of “the week our reality broke” as the New York Times wrote?

Or was it the moment, the day, the week, the year our delusion broke? From the abnormal state marked by beliefs and practices of extraction, consumption, corruption, oppression—all that is untrue.

When we awoke from our unreality. Coming back to what is true.

Healing reimagined.

This is our opportunity, right now. As we carefully emerge this spring, we carry forth these powerful lessons from our year-long retreat and hold in our hands the promise of return.

May you commit to your truth this week.

Love,
Jules

March 8, 2021February 12, 2022

News from Jules | 03.08.2021 | Healing Reimagined Part 2

Heading to the coast a week ago for my women spiritual group‘s annual two-day retreat—albeit virtual this year—and coming up on our COVID-19 anniversary, I reflected a lot on the last year.

I packed everything that needed to be released to make way for new life.

To seal the intention of adaptability.

Because this is what happens during the winter—the last season of the natural year—to make way for the next cycle of growth.

But, what needed to be released this winter, this retreat—and especially this year—in order to create more space for healing? For moving forward, into the future?

The short answer: Everything. But how?

I carried this immense question and a piece of very expensive chocolate with me to the edge of the foamy waves that Saturday morning. I stayed an extra second at the cusp of wet sand and nearly wet running shoes as I tossed my chocolate offering to Grandmother Ocean.

My heartfelt ask: Show me the way.

Her answer? The rest of the day.

After running on the beach and a hot shower, I returned to meditate thoughtlessly beside the waves. From the far end of the beach, Neah-Kah-Nie Mountain beckoned. And so I drove to the trailhead. Traveling swiftly up and down the steep trail, I only rested at the top long enough to take my favorite feet-seascape-and-horizon photo and a sip of water. When a snowflake hit my face, I stayed an extra second in surprise and delight at the cusp of winter and nearly spring weather. Then, back to the ocean, this time for a full plunge into her salty embrace. The truth washing over me, seeping into my pores and sticking to my hair like the salt.

Just like the tides and cycles of the moon, just like our body’s allostasis, just like a nurse log’s decomposition, just like the seasons of the year. Healing is a process.

Healing is a process of becoming whole again. A series of stages or steps. This we know:

Shock Stage: Triage
Immobility Stage: Protection
Growth Stage: Rebuilding
Mobility Stage: Recovery

And yet, is that true?

Rebuilding: from a broken to a fixed place. From a divided to an integrated place. Either way, things returning “back to the way they were.” But, that way doesn’t exist anymore.

Something my Dad said decades ago—a lesson shared from observing my Mom’s experiences for 33 years—filed neatly into a folder for truths I couldn’t yet grasp, until now. Retrieved last Saturday somewhere between sea level and summit, during a day of simply being one with nature, with my own nature:

“Stop focusing on what you don’t want to be. Focus on what you DO want to be…what you are.”

That was it. Not rebuilding, just building.

Healing reimagined.

Later that evening, as the orange flames of our campfire illuminated the dark sands and far off horizon of the low tide, I realized:

I had not reflected on any of the retreat session questions,
I had not organized my thoughts into reasoning,
I had not written anything in my retreat journal,
I had not sought advice in the counsel of others,

and yet I had the answer I needed.

Just like healing, retreat is a process. Unlike healing, retreat often feels too nourishing to conclude. But, the power of retreat is in the promise of return.

The promise of building, of becoming.

May you know what you already know this week.

Love,
Jules

March 1, 2021February 12, 2022

News from Jules | 03.01.2021 | Healing Reimagined Part 1

Having missed it other years, I was super on top of getting my flu shot as soon as it came out in late September. By Valentine’s Day, the flu shot must have worn off because I started to feel bad while driving home from work. Dang it! The cough that appeared earlier in the afternoon wasn’t just a tickle in my throat.

By midnight my fever was 103. I vomited all morning, then spent the day on the couch watching movies. By the next morning, I felt human again. Enough to rally and lead a four-day work retreat that week, then attend a two-day retreat the following weekend?

Yes, thank goodness! Those retreats turned out to be some of the last times indoors with coworkers and friends—not just being, but living, together. Hugging, eating, sleeping, breathing. Being without fear that the flu could lead to the ICU.

Some anniversaries come and go. Notable but inconsequential. Another year at a job. Another birthday.

As we approach this COVID-19 anniversary though, each preceding experience from a year ago today, feels thick with significance.

In retrospect, we see meaning in all the crevices of the moments preceding the moment when everything changed. And it’s easier now to name all the elusive feelings that were hovering just below the surface of shock.

Surprise, followed by confusion, followed by hope, followed by reality, followed by survival. In the case of this last year—followed by the next surprise, then the next, then the next. Actual surprises. And new surprises of things we hadn’t noticed until now.

In all this survival, there wasn’t a lot of energy left for grief—deep sorrow, immobilizing suffering—to mourn what we didn’t know we were going to lose. And still losing.

Defying the laws of physics, the energy to accept feels so much harder than to resist.

To accept what happened. To accept the way things are, now. The “New Normal.”

Except, there is no more “normal.”

While I can’t remember a lot about holiday break during my junior year of college, I have replayed the day I dropped my Mom off at the hospital for minor surgery a million times. I dropped her off in the morning on my way to work, then surprisingly had to go back that night because she was on a ventilator in the ICU. Where she stayed for three days. Where we stayed for three days and three nights before she died.

Eighteen years ago and yet likely so similar to the feelings and stages that 2.5 Million families have experienced over the last year (except without actually getting to be together).

Surprise, followed by confusion, followed by hope, followed by reality, followed by survival. One that is so much harder by seeking a new normal. How is there a new normal after that?

After this last year?

There is something different. There is a new life.

A new way of being.

Rich with gratitude, presence, vulnerability, adaptability.

Fully accessible once the reality is accepted and we’ve mourned what we forgot we would inevitably lose. Not just people or things, but the sense of security, the sense of control, the sense of privilege—above nature, not within it.

Because things don’t stay the same. That is not the way the world works. It is dynamic, ever-changing, ever-calibrating. The ability to adjust to new conditions is adaptability.

Heading to the coast last weekend for my women spiritual group’s annual two-day retreat—albeit virtual this year—and coming up on our COVID-19 anniversary, I reflected a lot on the last year.

I packed everything that needed to be released to make way for new life.

To seal the intention of adaptability.

May you let the grief in and out this week.

Love,
Jules

February 22, 2021February 12, 2022

News from Jules | 02.22.2021 | Tiny Perfect Things*

It was not the first time that I was out on a Sabbath stroll in the woods only to hear a voice ask excitedly and surprisingly from closeby: “Jules?”

The Universe? Our magnetic forces? Similar weekending habits?

Whatever the cause, last Saturday I serendipitously ran into this dear friend again. It was a double delight to love squint our eyes above our masks and receive what felt like a hug from the universe or a tiny perfect thing, *from a surprisingly good teen romcom if you need a light movie night.

At that moment I knew how much I had already recovered through my sacred day of deep rest. And how burned out I had been just days before.

From the action-packed, snowy weekend right on into the workweek, I also had virtual class or social commitments every single night. Five weeks into this kind of schedule, my routines were frayed, my rhythm was out of sync and my attitude was threadbare.

With every basic need that fell by the wayside—eating breakfast, brushing my teeth, just putting on deodorant—each new ask in service of someone else’s need chaffed like wet cotton on a rainy run.

No was my first reaction to most texts last week, including from that dear friend.My second response was a sigh for the obligation to respond and honor the ask.

This irritability was one of the first symptoms of my deep fatigue that I noticed. That quickly compounded into indulging and compensating. Before I knew it, I was scraping the bottom of my survival skills. Late last week I was making lists of everything as basic as sending an email. I was micromanaging my time down to four more minutes in bed before a meeting started and I had to get up.

I could no longer cope, or deal effectively with something difficult. Life felt like a chore, a grind, a burden. Not the privilege, the gift, the miracle that it is.

In precious minutes on the phone with one of my long-distance best friends—a nonprofit VP and mother of a toddler herself—I rattled on and on about all of my commitments. Calmly and lovingly she listened and empathized: Wow, that is a lot, especially right now. That sounds like “Vintage Jules.”

She was right. This is how I used to live all the time and what I thought was “normal” before I started practicing Sabbath six years ago. Oops!

In the excitement of starting new things in the new year, I quickly became overextended. Then with every personal or national event—a friend’s parent passing away from cancer, the insurrection followed by impeachment trials—I crossed over “vulnerability overload.”

Plus, I forgot about the persistent low-grade stress—of natural disasters from climate change, on top of the pandemic, on top of systemic racism.

With my friends’ insights and my body’s symptoms sounding alarms, I channeled my Nonviolent Communication learnings and asked my spirit for guidance: What was I feeling? What did I truly need?

I was exhausted. I needed rest.

Not longer hours of sleep at night or several naps. But sacred and deep rest.

It was that simple.

And so, I set the intention for last weekend: go back to the basics for observing Sabbath.

No work, no plans, offline. Let my spirit lead and make my body follow. Pause all passing thoughts. Meet my every and immediate need, no questions asked, moment by moment.

Like an instant spiritual chiropractic treatment, my routines immediately reset, my rhythm found its groove and my attitude regained perspective as I realigned to the universe.

I saw all the tiny perfect things the day had to offer.

Like that dear friend sitting on a bench in the park and calling out to me as I strolled by marveling at the giant trees. No need to text back or arrange a call, she was right there before me!

From one more thing to one less thing.

Hence the double delight.

May your spirit savor some deep, sacred rest this week.

Love,
Jules

February 8, 2021February 12, 2022

News from Jules | 02.08.2021 | Getting Everything You Need

Even with a worksheet in hand and three weeks into the course, I had the hardest time finding the words for my needs. Not the needs that come with obvious feelings like hungry or tired. But the more subtle needs. Like being heard or seen. Just as important though, constantly guiding our daily choices and habits that steer the bigger decisions.

During this five-week course, I’m learning the practice of Nonviolent Communication, also known as Compassionate Communication, created by Marshall Rosenberg, a psychologist who made the link back in the 1960’s between observations, feelings, needs and requests as a way “to authentically connect to another human being.”

I thought feelings and needs were simple. Geez, was I wrong.

I guess feelings and needs are simple if you’re only counting the basic ones.

But dig a little deeper, into the layer of known, but unnamed, psychological needs like security and self-expression and acceptance, and it sure gets complicated quickly. And that’s just one person’s needs! As soon as another person is added, then there’s instantly competing needs. Especially in less collective, more individually-minded cultures.

And this is where we find a deep, troublesome and pervasive struggle.

Whose needs are more important?

I faced this question head-on last December, when the COVID-19 case numbers surging up the charts after Thanksgiving looked more like a tsunami than a third wave. The Center for Disease Control revised recommendations for masks on all the time—inside or outside.

Several weeks into living alone, I decided to avoid being indoors with people anywhere, including quick trips to the grocery store. I logged into Instacart and submitted my first grocery delivery order.

Later in the afternoon the next day, my phone started vibrating with texts from the shopper: Would this [other organic, fake cheese brand] work instead? The six-pack of beer I selected was sold out and couldn’t be substituted. Sad face.

We texted back and forth for 55-minutes while I was in a Zoom work meeting and she navigated the store to find everything on my list.

Once I got the “I’m here” text, I grabbed my mask, put on my slippers, then ran down from the fifth floor to meet her out front. As she came around the driver’s side to open the trunk of the Ford Explorer, I saw this beautiful African American woman, twice as big as me, with a pink sequinned mask. I smiled. Now that’s my kinda style!

After a quick “Thank you” from six-feet apart, I gathered up the half-dozen grocery bags and waddled back into my apartment building. As I press the button for the elevator and stood there in the hallway, it hit me.

Wait a second. I simultaneously realized what just happened—what I just saw on the curb and had transpired over the last hour over text. I couldn’t yet name my feelings, but I knew something wasn’t right.

Just like in March as I came to my first epiphany of the pandemic, this defining moment was just as subtle of a wake-up call.

Slowly, I connected my observations with my feelings. And then with my needs. And then her needs.

I was concerned and worried.

Why was this woman—in one of the highest risk groups for potentially multiple reasons—spending hours exposed to others, so that I—in one of the lowest risk groups—could stay safe at home?

Yes, I needed safety and nourishment, hence delivery and groceries. And yes, she needed nourishment, perhaps that’s why she had that job. But, what about her need for safety?

What the heck? I should be doing her grocery shopping!

That was the one and only grocery delivery I did.

These defining moments—on my front porch and with Instacart—keep echoing, reminding me how this deep, troublesome and pervasive struggle touches every part of our lives. Because of the way we currently live, we are in a constant state of competing needs.

And the struggle to get our needs met is vulnerable. Especially when we can’t name them. We’re doing the best we can. And, this constant, collective vulnerability—not just some of us, all of us—is the opening.

An opening for all of us to grow, together.

We can take care of our needs and meet the needs of all. I know we can.

It starts with practice: noticing, sensing, naming and relating.

Authentically, selflessly, compassionately.

May you get everything you need this week.

Love,
Jules

February 1, 2021February 12, 2022

News from Jules | 02.01.2021 | Noticing Wonder

The puffs of white floating amidst the tree tops, like in a scene from one of “The Lord of the Rings” films, caught my eye one morning last week. Caught mid-task, I stood there watching the clouds for minutes—slowly swirl with the inhales and exhales of the breathing trees. I was charmed.

Up on the fifth floor and with windows nearly as tall as the 10-foot walls of my studio apartment, it’s hard not to notice the weather outside. Especially as it relates to the ridge of forested hills, aptly named Forest Park that’s a couple of miles west as the crow flies and separates the city from the low farmland on the way to the coast.

A daily barometer for gaining perspective.

Some days the hills are completely visible, some days it’s as if the world doesn’t exist beyond my block.

Most days there are clouds. Though they’re different every day. As if the clouds were a mood ring for the state of the world on any given day.

That is if nature had moods. If people even had moods. If moods were such a thing, instead of something we made up to separate ourselves from our emotions.

From being present.

It’s not just the clouds that change every day. It’s me.

Of course, they do look different—sometimes strained and thin, sometimes billowy, sometimes the little puffs.

My favorite: giant whale-looking herds (though they’ve only swum by once or twice). These made me gasp at their majesty and beauty, unlike the dense, boring grey ones that are more common.

But whether I notice them, or simply see them, depends on me.

Like hearing, but not actually listening. I might stand there the entire time, but then be unable to repeat back someone’s words a few minutes later. Sound familiar?

Whereas that morning last week when I was stuck in place, watching the clouds—losing track of time yet aware, alert and observant, neutral and thoughtless. Just like Irish poet and priest John O’Donohue said: Experiencing “each day as a sacred gift, woven around the heart of wonder.”

This is presence.

It is intentional, not accidental.

And it’s not an on/off switch.

Just like the ever-drifting, ever-changing clouds, my presence is in constant flux.

Meditation, sleep, diet, exercise, the outdoors all contribute.

Not to create, but to unlock, this natural state of being.

A state that unfortunately feels elusive and effortful in today’s world.

Even though I’ve detoxed for four weeks now, I do not feel this presence every day. Nor every hour of the days when I do. But, I am present more often. And not just in the beautiful moments.

I am noticing wonder in the angry, the hurtful, the disappointing, the unfair, the confusing moments too. Not yet in the mundane moments though. Someday.

John O’Donohue’s “A Blessing for Presence” puts it best:
May you awaken to the mystery of being here and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence this week.

Love,
Jules

January 26, 2021February 12, 2022

News from Jules | 01.25.2021 | Being Present Together

Given all the emotions of the day, it was hard to tell where my nerves were coming from. As I took a deep in-breath, signing off one Zoom call, and immediately signed into a new Zoom call with a deep out-breath, I was calm and excited.

One by one faces appeared until 14 coworkers sat with me, patiently waiting, expectant of a 15-minute zen break in the middle of their “hump” day. And not just any hump day: Inauguration Day.

1-2-3 all eyes on me.

The smallest atom of what Amanda Gorman must have felt earlier that day. And yet, the universal feeling of doing a first: “something you’ve never done before.”

Leading my first meditation sitting—a discipline I had only started practicing daily in the past few weeks. Just the beginning.

But was it?

Perhaps the beginning of my practice, yet a discipline sprinkled throughout my personal development journey over the past 15 years.

I took a deep in-breath, drawing in all that had lead to this moment, and then released my fear to the universe, with a deep out-breath.

“As you settle into this moment, simply focus on being in your body. This is the only place you need to be. This is presence.”

Just as I had practiced a few days before on my own, we began with a reading from Julia Cameron’s Heart Steps: Prayers and Declarations for a Creative Life:

My true nature is the experience of unity. All separation is fear. All fear is illusion. We forget that we are one…In our unity, we are one people, one earth, one song. Each of us sings a True Note.

We were not synchronized. We were not identical. We were 15 different bodies sitting in our own posture, with our own breaths, with our own sensations, feelings, thoughts. In 15 different places.

And yet, we were one. All focused on the same goal: being present together.

Just as so many millions had sat hours before mesmerized by the poetry of the day. The start of the next era. A new beginning.

But was it?

As if there was a giant switch that simply needed to be flipped. On or off. Ending to beginning. Old to new. Release to receive.

As if transformation happens like that. Instead of a slow fade like a light dimmer. Or better yet like the sun—in constant rotation and degree of brightness.

The 15-minute sitting came to an end.

Together, we took a deep in-breath of accomplishment and then a deep out-breath of humility.

Present in the process.

May you stay the course in your evolution this week.

Love,
Jules

January 18, 2021February 12, 2022

News from Jules | 01.18.21 | Detox Your Soul

The hallway was completely dark except for dim light at the bottom of the stairs. The top step was large enough for two people side-by-side, but I stood alone, in front of a large door. It seemed slightly ajar. But, as I started looking closer the light went out below. Before my eyes could adjust to the darkness, the walls seemed to be closing in. I held onto the fear for a prolonged moment before opening my eyes.

Phew, I was still safely wrapped in a blanket, sitting on a cushion on the ground, criss-cross-apple-sauce, as the sun rose.

During the second week of my annual detox, I added daily meditation prompts from Mark Nepo’s The Book of Awakening to my 15-minute sittings. The day’s prompt was “Seeing into Darkness.”

Relieved, I recognized the feeling of being constricted and compressed. I was scared of being conformed. I was scared of losing my sense of self—only recently recovered—or worse, of actually losing myself. The discomfort was familiar. And got me wondering more about the root of this fear.

As I woke up from a dream yesterday morning, I put two-and-two together. Is this my fear—or is this a fear I have taken on?

In the dream I was overservicing the needs of others—anticipating, attending to, taking care of everything—except for myself. Interestingly, I was wearing a green- and red-flowered apron that I made for my Mom in a sewing class when I was 7. The same apron I wore last month while baking Christmas cookies for my neighbors. Just like my Mom did.

Loving my Mom so much I paid close attention to her while I was growing up. I saw her struggle with self-care, as I imagine she may have also observed with her mother.

Just because we act in a way that’s based on what we know, what we saw, doesn’t mean it is who we are.

I pondered the details of the dream as I made my morning lemon water and sat down to meditate. Reading Sunday’s meditation reflection and daily prompt made so much sense: “Still, the cost of not being who you are is that while you’re busy pleasing everyone around you, a precious part of you is dying inside; in this case, there will be internal conflict to deal with—the friction of being invisible,” wrote Mark Nepo.

In one of my favorite photos of my Mom, Kathy, she’s on a mountain top with my Dad back when my parents were mountaineers. Polarized sunglasses lowered, she’s looking right at him taking the picture and sticking out her tongue. Playful, energetic, fun. In her late-20s. Before three kids. Before stepping behind the camera until we all finally left home for college and Kathy fully reappeared. This is the way I remember her before she unexpectedly passed away 18 years ago.

Just as I can’t ask her about her actual fears and struggles, I may never understand my own. But, every day I can choose to hold on or to release them.

Especially right now.

During cold, dark winter.

The fourth and final season in this growth cycle. A natural time for acknowledgment and release, for getting rid of toxic or unhealthy substances—of all the fears, ideas, beliefs, habits that no longer serve us. Is this actually me—or is this something I have taken on?

Detoxing your soul.

From here, from clarity, from curiosity, we can confidently see into the darkness.

May you stay true to yourself this week.

Love,
Jules

January 11, 2021February 12, 2022

News from Jules | 01.11.21 | Find Discomfort and Reassurance

In the darkness of the dawn, the wind sideswiping my apartment building might as well have been a pack of howling wolves, the hum of the refrigerator was like a jet taking off, the diiinnnngggggg as if the hallway elevator was actually inside my apartment.

With all that noise, how could I hear my own breath—none the less my own being?

As the thankfully noiseless digital minutes ticked by, I slowly settled into my body and turned my attention inward.

I knew this was the point of meditation—to feel, sense, hear every part of this miraculous system we live in. Something that had alluded this busy body for most of a lifetime!

This is my ninth year of practicing Joshi’s Holistic Detox at the beginning of the new year. The first year I was preparing for an early 30th birthday trip to Mexico with college friends that February. Knowing that we’d be poolside all week, I was primarily concerned with getting slim. It worked amazingly well. And, as a yoga practitioner, I was also intrigued by the indigenous roots of Joshi’s Ayurvedic approach from India, going way beyond just diet, including organic/local food sources and products, hydration, sleep, fitness, and meditation. Every year since I’ve added learning another element to the detox.

This year is meditation: Fifteen minutes, every day. First thing after I wake up. Wrapped in a blanket, sitting on a cushion on the ground, criss-cross-apple-sauce.

During a Hatha yoga class recently, the teacher told us to sit crosslegged “the wrong way.”

“You know how you’re sitting now and it feels just right? Well, switch it.”

During class, I tried to tuck my right leg in with my left leg in front and I was amazed. I couldn’t do it. Okay, I sort of did it. But, it felt like trying to walk on my hands. Completely unfamiliar, awkward and unstable. Had I really been sitting one way for my entire life?

After class, I asked the teacher how I could learn to sit the other way. Her sweetly empathetic reply? “You’re just going to have to sit in the discomfort.”

Every day last week I practiced. Wrapped in a blanket, sitting on a cushion on the ground, criss-cross-apple-sauce. Finding a new “right” way.

I sat in the discomfort. And found reassurance.

Each day it felt a tiny bit more right.

Not just having my right leg tucked in, but meditation in general. I am learning so much from this detox already. One week down, two more to go.

Slightly more flexible, slightly more familiar, slightly more ease, slightly more attention available to attune with the sweet, silent nothingness at my core. Not even to hear the sweet nothings that come from that place, but just to let myself know I’m listening.

I’m here.

I’m open.

I’m infinitely adaptable.

And so are you.

May you sit in the discomfort a little bit longer this week.

Love,
Jules

P.S. Thank you for the additional survey submissions. The responses affirm the same trends. One reader repeated what others’ said, “I could have checked all the reasons I read your newsletter…each time there is something different I gain or enjoy. Thanks for keeping it going.” Y’all are welcome!

Tag: Personal Growth

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