It can feel as though we should be there already. That we should be done. Or over the human who was reckless with our heart. Or perfectly and cleanly mindful and above it all. Or at the very least that we shouldn’t be back here. Back here wrestling with our body. Back here in the doubt conjoined with the questions of who
I always forget about the middle part of change. At the beginning it’s scary, but novel with a hint of exciting. And at the end there is at least some semblance of a path. You can almost grab a hold of that tangible, new life. But in the middle there’s just change. Just motion. Just
I am excellent at speaking for my body. At taking a step back from and then neatly verbalizing its struggle into appropriate vulnerability. I can handle vulnerability orchestrated by the written word. There is just enough safety in it to keep me coming back for further inquiry. But then there are those moments in which
…a courageous and imperfect life. We get seduced by this notion of perfect. Of complete understanding of who we are. Perfection is the opposite of creation. It’s hard and shiny and static. We are none of those things. When we let go of arrival. When we release the idea of being one person. When we surrender into the dynamism and creation of our story, that’s when life gets to be wild, and gorgeous and fully ours.
Become the irreverent author and editor of your own life.