Practice

Sometimes healing takes longer than we would like.I’m from a family of pushers.  We get a sense of normalcy after illness or injury and immediately jump into high gear.  Anything less is sacrifice, anything less is loss.  The grind of production comes from a deep, unsettled fear.  Fear of instability.  Fear of judgement.So this past month my body’s refusal to comply with my will to get back in action, effort my work, to be measurably useful, was a tremendous disappointment.  So I pushed, harder.Injury.In the past week I’ve had to stop everything and rest.  Remember resting?  The art of doing nothing, not making, not reading for class, not emailing, not social media-ing, not talking on the phone or plotting new events.  Resting.This rest carried over to my very movements–walking slow, standing still, lying down were all acts of compassion.  In these actions, a gift.  I noticed things.  The drift of apple blossom petals.  Individual flowers.  The distinction between birds.  I noticed how fast I move normally through my life, how little time I devote these days to resting and paying attention, to deliberate motion, to bird song and petals.In all ways, today, I feel better.  And I have come away from this time with some lessons, crawling through my brain at first but now, fully woven.Lessons learned while healing:I am accountable for my own support.  And it is okay to ask for help.Slowness and rest are not optional.  Integration requires appreciation for other modes of being.My teacher Mara told me that in many spiritual traditions physical pain means the gods are trying to reach you.  They’ve already tried connecting with you in symbols and dreams and by emotional means–sadness, anger, joy.  Physical pain means you weren’t paying attention.  Which, I wasn’t.These lessons, along with my continued spiritual practice are weaving some new patterns. This spring is full of delicious, exciting, possible things.  Including collaborations with Ingrid Kincaid, The Rune Woman, and Charlene Murdock of Nana Cardoon Urban Farm.  More on these soon.For now, dusk comes, a day ends.  For now, this, right here, is enough.