News from Jules | 01.24.2022 | It’s Like This

one lesson about integrity every week

It’s been a beautiful, strange two weeks: Hoping for a miracle, sitting with a reality, mourning a loss. I have been gratefully aware of life—and the distinct difference between being alive versus feeling alive. It’s not just wording. It is a different sensation.

Two weeks ago, I went back to my naturopath for another intrauterine insemination (IUI) attempt with donor sperm on a Monday. On that Wednesday, I woke up with cold symptoms that turned out to be COVID-19 positive. And then Sunday was the anniversary of the day we lost my Mom 19 years—nearly half my life—ago. 

There was a sort of purity, simplicity and rawness in all of these elements of the circle of life converging at the very same time. Not fateful or correlated. Just beautiful and strange. 

I sure wouldn’t have planned it this way, if I was in charge of planning

But, like my new favorite Buddhist mantra says: Right now, it’s like this.

This is life.

Luckily, I only experienced mild COVID symptoms for a few days. After two years of fearing this virus, I was gratefully aware of being alive. Simple things: Sleeping, breathing, walking, pain, smelling, hunger, tasting. I didn’t feel awful. I didn’t feel good. But I felt. 

And then, there was the first day I woke up gratefully aware of feeling alive. Simple things: alertness, clarity, strength, energy. I didn’t feel wonderful. But I glowed. I felt like myself again.

That day I stepped out of isolation to cautiously take a walk. Bundled up in my long puffy coat, I took deep breaths of the fresh, cold, winter air. I noticed flowers, trees, clouds like I’d never seen them before. And as I kept walking, I noticed how much I preferred this sensation: this feeling alive.

In fact, it was the only sensation that I considered worth living.

I had to sit on the curb and think about that for a good long minute, or twelve: 

  • How was feeling alive different from being alive?
  • Why was vivacity better than existence?
  • Aren’t we all just lucky to be alive?

We are, we are. 

It is such a miracle to create life. It is so hard to stay present to ever-changing reality. It is even harder to accept constant loss. 

While there is a distinct difference, a different sensation, between being alive and feeling alive, there is no hierarchy. One is not better than the other.

Even if it feels like it is. 

The only “better” is aligning to what is

Right now, it’s like this. 

May you be and feel alive this week.  

Love,
Jules


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News from Jules | 01.17.2022 | What Feels Right and True

one lesson about integrity every week

There were so many things I expected to come to fruition last year besides the dream of summiting Mt. Hood. Seeds that I thought I planted last March, nurtured through the summer, and anticipated harvesting in the fall. Just as I’d planned. So it came as a humble reminder to enter winter, the last season in our current growth cycle, and keep trying. 

Trying to start a family. Trying to find true love. Trying to make a living. Trying to write a book. 

Persistent dreams I committed to pursuing wholeheartedly last year. 

During my annual exam last January, 2021, I excitedly told my OBGYN that after years of deliberation I was ready to have a baby on my own. And, I also kept my heart open as I met a few potential soulmates during outdoor adventures throughout the year. I accepted getting laid off in July—at the same time as finally being debt-free—as an opportunity to reassess my callings. I set up a dedicated writing desk and dusted off my box of notecards, source texts, sparkly inspirational doodads. 

This was all happening throughout last year, subtly veiled beneath the catchy phrases and metaphors in my blog; the word choices and photos on Instagram. Known to those in my day-to-day, but not to all of you. 

Even when I wasn’t writing, I constantly debated with myself about what to share and the relevance to your lives: What is necessary and useful? What is inspiring? What is personal? What is private?

And, how would it all turn out? Would I jinx myself or close doors by sharing half-baked truths?

But, can the Universe really provide if I keep withholding my truth?  

Who knows?

These questions are beyond me. I can’t know what is going on in your life—just like you don’t know mine unless I tell you. You may not even know what is necessary, useful or inspiring for your journey, until you read it. What is too personal to know, until you feel it. 

And then you’ll decide to simply follow the pull of curiosity. Or not and stop reading.

The question I can answer: What feels right and true and whole to me?

My own words reminding me:

The world cannot be whole without all of you. 

I held these questions as fall became a season of healing after so much trying. A time to stop trying. To harvest health and balance. To nourish every part of my being with long hikes, strong workouts, good food, and honest storytelling. To study the natural rhythm. 

“Tying my family’s nutritional fortunes to the seasons…did acquaint us in new ways with what seasons mean, and how they matter,” wrote Barbara Kingsolver in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. “Especially, I’m coming to understand [my elder] culture’s special regard for winter. It’s the season to come through.” 

And so, I entered the winter solstice a month ago lighter and ready to let go of what isn’t serving me: control, planning, permanence, opacity.

Instead, I am transparently surrendering to this Season of life, and inviting you along. 

I am sharing more of the actual everyday journey toward integrity. Not waiting for how “it all turns out” and what it meant based on “what I know now.” I am still trying for the right mix of personal but not private, relatable yet specific. Necessary, useful, inspiring for you—and for me as I make sense of it as I go. 

Here we are. 

This quiet time to come through, together. 

May you come through this week.  

Love,
Jules


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News from Jules | 07.16.2021 | If You Go First

one lesson about integrity every week

Caught up in my thoughts about everything that had happened in the previous week, I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was. The brown sand and low bushes had quickly turned to rolling green fields as I traveled from the Central Oregon desert back toward the Cascades mountain range earlier this week.

As I cruised along, I looked over my shoulder to the left. Noticing Mt. Hood it hit me:

Whoa, I’ve climbed that. 

I scanned the horizon. As I looked toward my right and noticed Mt. Adams over in Washington it hit me: Whoa, I climbed that too…last weekend. Even though I’d just stood near or at the highest points of these peaks—including all 12,281 feet of Mt. Adams and 1,000 feet higher than Mt. Hood—from afar they both seemed insurmountable. 

Like a dream. And yet, a dream that I lived step by step. Breath by breath. Choice by choice. The mountains patiently waiting for me to come to them. 

If I go first. 

Mt. Adams was my third climb in a month, but it felt like my first real summit. After five hours of hiking and climbing with a 35-pound pack at our leisurely pace the day before, my climbing partner and I camped at 9,300 feet to acclimatize before the next day’s ascent. We intentionally set out “late” around 7 a.m. the next morning so that the snow would be softer and less icy on our descent later that afternoon. We immediately put on our crampons and helmets and headed straight up for the next five hours.

For each “You got this, girl” pushing me through a tough spot, I reminded myself to stop and look around. Look down to face the fear. Look out to see the beauty. The vast expanse of land off into the horizon—rolling hills like waves under the drifting clouds—continued to take my breath away. It was a different ocean than I’d ever seen before.

Usually, I sprint to the finish. No matter what I tap into a hidden reserve of adrenaline and speed. I finish strong. But as we came around the bend into the last 200 feet from the top, literally a stone’s throw away, everything started slowing down.

My steps. My breath. My mind. Can I do this?

The doubt came out of nowhere. Affirming itself and avoiding the present, my mind flashed back to my first half-marathon: When I felt like I was going to fall apart and started walking around mile 10. But, then as I rounded the bend I saw my brother and sister-in-law cheering me on, so I quickly started running again to not disappoint them. But, that was the past. And it wasn’t helpful. What was I moving toward?

Living into my fullest potential as a human.

Like in a slow-motion dream, I watched visions of the future: family, kids, writing, teaching, retreating, being. I felt all the sensations of being humbly, vulnerably, courageously so very human

And as I took the final steps to the very top, it all washed over me with warm, happy tears. 

I was standing exactly where my parents stood when I was just a speck of potential. Even though my family wasn’t there, I knew they were cheering me on from afar. Like they always have. Not to accomplish goals. But to live into my dreams. Even if they couldn’t understand. 

I savored the summit, sending bubbles of joy off in the wind before I carried this truth with me from all the way atop Mt. Adams down toward sea level and back to reality. 

Spending five days with the fluidity of the ocean and the stability of the mountain was exactly the grounding I needed to be fully present throughout the last two weeks. Driving back from an amazing weekend in Bend, I returned to wrap up my last week of work at this company. ​It’s growing fast, but not fast enough to require a full-time Learning & Development Manager.  

So, today is my last day and I am among the unemployed masses once again. One of the lucky who will receive unemployment insurance benefits and still has group healthcare coverage. 

Of course, the narrative arc is not lost on me: coming full circle to where I was a year ago when I started blogging again. 

Every week for the last 52 weeks I have sent a TinyLetter to y’all—plus and minus a few readers. That wasn’t actually the goal when I started writing again last July 20, 2021. It was simply to Carpe Diem.

And I did seize the day.

It kept me going this extraordinary past year to send these weekly updates as I processed life and shared what I discovered. I love being connected to each of you. Knowing you’re cheering me on in my journey. And as you’re navigating your own journey—whenever the subject line draws you in and wherever the words find you. 

So, I’ll keep writing eventually and we’ll stay connected. 

I’ll keep posting beautiful moments in relationships, sports, travel, nature, life on Instagram

Initially, I’m taking a two-week break to reset my reality. Most of which will be outdoors and offline. And, then I may come back to weekly posts or perhaps at a different or random cadence or I may switch to editing. I’m not sure. 

Right now, I am leaning deeply into the unknown. 

As my Yogi tea bags keep telling me: The unknown is where all possibilities lie. 

Where anything is possible. 

Where everything is possible. 

May you go first this week. 

Love,
Jules


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News from Jules | 07.05.2021 | Saying Yes to One Thing

one lesson about integrity every week

I could feel it all week. Having spent so much time in the mountains lately, I needed to get back to sea level.

Without anywhere in particular in mind, I scanned the Oregon coastline on Google Maps. I only had Thursday night before my next climbing trip over the weekend, so I needed to stay close to Portland. Nothing jumped off the map until I moved up to Washington. Long Beach caught my eye. It was that kooky little town on my bucket list discovered while facilitating a retreat nearby a few summers ago. 

The closest campground was at Cape Disappointment State ParkI’d never been there! 

Or had I been there too many times to count—figuratively that is? Is it possible to live life to the fullest without having hopes or expectations?

One of the many things I was wondering as I set out on this brief personal retreat. 

As soon as I parked, smelled the salt air and discovered the tiny trail directly from my campsite to the beach, I knew: This was exactly where I needed to be.

As if I had planned it long ago, instead of the night before. 

As I sunk my bare feet into the sand and scanned the beach, my first inclination was to explore the caverns and shoreline of this place I’d never been to until sunset. Getting to know every inch of it. Seeing everything. My curiosity always steering the course. Yet, this wasn’t what had drawn me to the coast. 

I needed to just sit there. 

Three steps and four drift logs from where I emerged. 

Just me, Grandmother Ocean and all the feelings of doubt and insecurity about ever living into my fullest potential as a human. Potential recently tapped into during peak experiences, but not yet amidst my day-to-day. Bringing forth everything I have been gifted to offer the world: family, kids, writing, teaching, retreating, being. 

Simply being. 

Amidst all the doing, could our being be all that’s asked of us?

So simple. Yet so immense. I still can’t wrap my head around it.

Saying yes to one thing and no to everything else. 

Yes to being right here, right now, in whatever this moment holds. 

Like the waves lapping on the shore. The birds flying overhead. The lighthouse on the cliff, constantly turning to spread its light. 

Can just being lead me to everything I’m drawn to? Do I need to do anything? Besides showing up?

I sat there smoking a cigar until the sky, waves and beach turned the same shade of grey and there was no one else on the beach. Just me, Grandmother Ocean and all the sensations of being humbly, vulnerably, courageously so very human. 

I carried this truth with me from sea level all the way up Mt. Adams, where I camped 24 hours later beside a different ocean than I’d ever seen before. 

May you say yes to being this week.

Love,
Jules


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News from Jules | 06.28.2021 | Row Your Own Way

one lesson about integrity every week

Once my eyes opened I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I quickly changed into shorts and a sweatshirt, grabbed a life jacket and an oar and set off toward the lake. 

It seemed like everyone in the entire campground was still asleep. And the throngs of visitors had yet to arrive. 

With a record-breaking heatwave rolling into the Pacific Northwest over the weekend, everyone had the same idea to head toward the mountain. At the last minute, my plans changed from climbing South Sister with friends in Central Oregon to joining other friends on their family campout.

As soon as we got set up on Friday night, we brought the canoe and standup paddleboards (SUP) down to the water for a sunset row. I wondered how magical the sunrise on the lake would be.

The next day the lake was bustling like the waterways of Venice: SUPs, canoes, dinghies, rafts, inner tubes, even household air mattresses. People everywhere. Voices carrying across the water, everyone commenting, “I’ve never seen this many people on Trillium Lake before!” 

At 6:30 a.m. on Sunday morning, it was just me and the actual early birds chirping away

As I walked the boardwalk and the perimeter trail to where we’d left the canoe, it hit me:

Can you row a canoe by yourself? Or does it take two people? I had no idea. I realized I’d never rowed a canoe solo before. I could turn around and give up. Or I could try it. 

Why not?

Once I found it amongst the bushes, I turned the canoe over and pushed it away from the grassy shore. 

Would it even work with only one oar? Yes. 

Or would I just go in circles? 
No. 

Even if it’s backward apparently. Defying logic, I learned later that the bigger seat is actually the front and the smaller seat goes in the back. Huh, good to know!  

I sliced through the still water, alternating a few strokes on each side of the canoe. Stopping every few minutes to take photos of one magical moment after another: the sun peeking through the treeline, the yellow flower buds peeking through the lily pads, the tree stumps jutting out of the middle of the lake, the shadows moving across the mountain’s glaciers. All reflected back on the still water. 

Thoughts buzzed past just like the dragonflies, connecting this moment with past moments. Instead of dwelling on the random thoughts or making meaning, I simply smiled. 

The actual dragonflies excitedly mating over the lily pads were much more interesting. 

A gaggle buzzed over to me, some pairs hit the side of the canoe with a thud, bounced off and kept flying. 

It was more than magic. 

This was living in harmony with nature. Living in harmony with my nature. 

Fleetwood Mac had it right: Go your own wayRow your own way. 

The risk: Figuring it out on one’s own. 

The reward: Getting to witness the beginning of a new day.

May you go your own way this week. 

Love,
Jules


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News from Jules | 03.15.2021 | Healing Reimagined Part 3

one lesson about integrity every week

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 unrealityComing 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


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News from Jules | 03.08.2021 | Healing Reimagined Part 2

one lesson about integrity every week

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: EverythingBut 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: 

  1. Shock Stage: Triage
  2. Immobility Stage: Protection
  3. Growth Stage: Rebuilding
  4. 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


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News from Jules | 03.01.2021 | Healing Reimagined Part 1

one lesson about integrity every week

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


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News from Jules | 01.04.21 | Begin Again

one lesson about integrity every week

As we turn the corner into a new year, I’m taking a break from my storytelling format this week to check-in and orient to the bigger picture. If we learned anything from last year, it was about transparency and the power of confirming consent. 

As some will recall, when I heeded the call to build Everyday Integrity, I sent weekly newsletters and blogged throughout 2018. When I landed a contract “day job” I stopped writing. During that 20-month break, I missed writing. And, it felt like I missed an opportunity—to share the journey as I continued to learn and fail and live into integrity, everyday.

So, it was an immediate “of course,” when that contract was up in July, 2020, and my inner voice whispered, “Send TinyLetters” (if you missed any, past issues are available here). I recommitted to blogging and sending these weekly updates for two reasons:

  1. As a way to process life and share what I was discovering (as I set out to find my way back to my calling for the umpteenth time).
  2. To be accountable to myself and to others (you!)

Back in October, 2020, I sent a survey to see how I was doing. Starting a full-time job as a Learning & Development Manager at a local software startup, I considered whether to keep writing. Did it matter? There were 13 respondents who reassured me it did.

While that’s only 10% of overall readership, it was plenty for me. Most people don’t do surveys anyhow, though 40-50% of folks do open this very week (That amazing gift keeps me going alone!). 

Because 85% (12 of 13) respondents prefer “a moral to the story,” I continue to experiment with how to weave lessons learned into my updates. I’m still exploring how to make lessons more universal and share more personally. I was surprised that 77% (10 of 13) said that when they read this “changes all the time,” so I’m no longer worried about my send time (especially since it’s just the next thing in the inbox” for so many). 

Unsurprisingly, 62% (8 of 13) were primarily “curious what I’m up to.” This sense of connection is at the heart of why I write. And makes me wonder about reaching a broader audience than my personal network.

  • One reader said, “the fact I can hear you in every word is the best thing about it.”
  • Another said, “it makes me feel more connected to you.” Me too!! 
  • Yet another said, “Thank you for sharing the journey. It’s a link to another perspective.”
  • And one reader wanted to mention, “I also read because I am inspired by many of your practices.”

I am inspired to share even more about my practices—both personal growth and spiritual development—as well as the journey this year. I’m not exactly sure what that will look or sound like yet. Just like I’m not sure how the journey will play out. This is why the journey is an adventure, huh?

For now, I’m doing my annual detox for the next six to eight weeks to help me gain clarity as I plan and dream my way into the next cycle of growth—as I pursue summiting Mt. Hood, sustainable living and starting a family.

There will be plenty more about all that as I figure it out! ​So, if you’re still along for the ride, stick around while I keep experimenting. Or heck, share with a friend.

If your inbox is too full already, by all means, unsubscribe to start the new year fresh (click the link at the bottom next to my email address). 

May you begin again, fresh and new, each time this week.

Love,
Jules

P.S. Always all ears for more feedback! Take the survey here—it’s still open, it’s anonymous and it only took folks a minute or two!

P.S.S. This week’s Subject is inspired by January in my new 2021 desk calendar (check out the video here) made by Tiny & Snail, a sister-artist duo in the Midwest. The calendar was proactively preordered by one of my best friends and not for general sale, though there are tons of adorable cards. All of which are wildly inspiring to me!


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! 

News from Jules | 12.21.20 | You’re Invited to Let Go

one lesson about integrity every week

As the bell jingled and I stepped into the empty restaurant last week, I wasn’t entirely certain that it was open for business. Since moving, I’ve been trying new spots around my new North Portland neighborhood for my Thursday Thai Takeout.  

Eventually, the owner appeared. He passed the pad thai with chicken, no peanuts, no spice, through the small opening of the plexiglass divider, along with my bill, and then retreated back two giant steps. 

As I reached for a clean pen to sign the bill, his question caught me off guard. 

I stopped and looked up, straight into his soft eyes above the black mask. Sure enough, my ears had heard his tone correctly: compassion.

“How are you holding up?”

It was like he could see inside me: how my heart was struggling with its own battles, even as my fortune afforded me a safe haven to weather the struggles. 

I could sense his own struggles to sustain this business, to provide for his family, to persist. 

“I’m doing the best I can.” 

He nodded in agreement, hearing my tone correctly: honesty. 

These are the raw, real moments born of this raw, real year. Some moments of much needed socializing even leading to relationships in unlikely places.

I started Thursday Thai Takeout in late March to celebrate nearly making it to the end of each intense week. Week after week I found myself calling the same Thai place down the street as I wrapped up the workday on Thursdays: pad thai with chicken, no peanuts, no spice for J-u-l-e-s please. When I was on my “sabbatical” and backpacking this summer I missed a couple of weeks in a row. Walking in the following Thursday, the woman ran from behind the counter as if to hug me, saying how worried she was whether I was okay. Later in the fall, she showed me photos of her first hiking trip inspired by my backpacking stories.

Thursday Thai Takeout is not a commitment forever.  It is a tradition for right now. A way to cope. 

Each adjustment, every necessary new habit, is growth. Shaping the ability to adapt. To persist.

Just like the natural cycle of the world around us. Today, continuing into a new season—winter for some, summer for others—and possibly into a new era

Winter Solstice especially invites us to review our growth, our adaptations: count our blessings and let go of everything that no longer serves—dreams, habits, beliefs, qualities—thus, creating space for what is needed on the path ahead.

Instead of fixating on illusions dressed up as hope, fantasies dressed up as faith, choose to move forward in reality, with compassion and honesty. 

The invitation is not only for the day but for the next three months. A whole season of shedding while resting, renewing, restoring—preparing for the next cycle of growth and continuous adaptation.

According to John O’Donohue’s blessing For the Interim Time:

“The more faithfully you can endure here,
The more refined your heart will become
For your arrival in the new dawn.”

So, how are you holding up?

What no longer serves you?

What needs a rest, a pause, or even an ending?

What can you give away to the dark nights as we make our way back to the light?

May you leave space for compassion and honesty 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!