Edison Rex

Trust

I went to yoga today in the midst of a stressful morning. 

I was about 20 minutes late to class, as I had to wait for a spot in the gym childcare to open up for Thommy. (Oh, January gym goers, I will outlast you!)

The important thing is, I got there.

I crept in quietly, and gently unrolled my mat. My fellow students were on their backs, in the middle of some leg exercise I'd never done before. But in this particular class, I expect new and unfamiliar. 

I lay down on my mat and followed along. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know why I was doing it. 

I was there, moving my legs, looking at the ceiling, in yoga class and that was all that mattered.

Everything, everything, from the morning melting away. Or rather, released. Wow. Why was it so easy?

Then it came to me: I love yoga, I love this practice, because I trust it. Implicitly. I'll try nearly any pose, any chant, any breath, any exercise to see what happened. With complete trust in this teacher and in yoga.

And I trust that no matter what happens in the practice, I will learn something from it. I will be happy that I showed up.

I can come to my mat and go into mental and emotional freefall because I trust I will be caught. I may go through the day feeling like nothing more than a bundle of atoms held together by the force of attraction, but I know that in yoga I can let go and I will not scatter. I trust. 

I realized, as I moved in and out of poses, what a vital and necessary thing it is to have places of complete trust. 

Tension releases. Hackles go down. Jaws unclench. Defenses, gone.

Trust allows release. Unbounded creativity. To see and be seen, completely and clearly. 

So much of life requires demands on guard. Second-guessing. Analyzing. Selectively sharing. Or does it?

Where do you find spaces of complete trust?

xoxo Maeg

 

 

 

 

Hello 2012. I barely know you and yet, here we are.

It's the New Year. Time for post-it notes, planning, resolutions, and goals. 

I've got none of those at the moment.

It was wonderful to take a break from computer-land, to see long-lost loved ones, climb a tree, and lay in bed reading Steve Jobs' biography and knitting. 

I also thought that somewhere in there I'd be setting goals, making a giant wall of post-its, and getting dizzy about sharpening a fresh set of ambitions. Because, after all, aren't I here to inspire you?

You know what? I'm without a single chart, plan, or goal for 2012, save following my own curiosity and inner compass on how to get started. 

As uncomfortable as that feels right now, I'm not willing to rush the process.

It is January, after all. A season of folding inward and hibernating. And you all know how I feel about honoring seasons.

Havi summed it up perfectly for me today:

I’m setting up January to be slow and contemplative rather than following the bigger cultural push to be busy doing and creating.

In fact, I am just now realizing how dissonant and incongruent it seems (to me!) to try to follow that cultural push at a time when my body wants to be in hibernation. 

I'm letting go of goals, for the moment. In fact, I'm considering having no goals at all. And resolutions? I'm feeling skeptical of their root word, resolve. Seems so hardened, so teeth-clenched, so marching forward.

In previous years I've taken great pride in my organized, balls-to-the-walls approach to reviewing, planning, and setting goals toward making my various dreams come true.

Complete honesty: In many ways all that strutting has only led me to feel good about how balls-to-the-wallsy I am. And kept me busy, but still dreaming.

Whoa. So I did a little post- Shiva Nata shavasana (yoga naptime) on the idea of goals and this phrase jumped into my mind: enter as I wish to be in it.

Which of course, I had heard before.

In this case, it had a particular meaning:

That my work toward my goals have the same qualities as the dreams I am trying to achieve.

Play. Experimentation. Freedom. Curiousity. Creativity. 

Pliant. Soft. Free. Joyous. Loving.

Oh. Wow. No balls or walls there. 

Seems unsurprising that a hardass approach hasn't gotten me where I want to go, no?

So here I am, in this space, with one foot in 2011 and one in 2012. 

I'm looking in both directions. I'm taking it all in. The calendar page is turning whether I'm ready or not, and I don't need to have everything just-so to continue into this year. I'm starting with a little bit of unknowing, play, and experimentation.

I'd love to hear about the inner start of your year, your own experience, thoughts, and approach. Balls and walls welcome, of course! As is unknowing.

xoxo Maeg

Small Acts of Random Abundance, Day One

 “Because art is born in expansion, in a belief in sufficient supply, it is critical that we pamper ourselves for the sense of abundance it brings to us. A box of raspberries or a small bouquet can bring a big shift in optimism.” --Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way

In the spirit of this beautiful quote from Julia Cameron, I'm committing to making and documenting one small act of random abundance here on the blog, each day for one week. And I hope that you will join me! Read this post to learn more.

Today's moment of abundance: A little bit of sanctuary in the midst of a busy day. Normally as soon as I set my son down for his nap I get right down to work. Today, I tidied my bedroom into a peaceful getaway. I cooked myself a delicious, healthy lunch. I read some Oprah magazine. I watched the sun shine through the windows. I reveled in the thought of having enough time to be good to myself. Even though there are no extra hours today.

What small act of random abundance is yours today? Share what you've done or will do in the comments. Or share a link to a photo or blog post of your act of abundance! 

Until tomorrow,

xo Maeg

F*ck Abundance.

Fuck abundance.

There. I said it.

Love abundance.

That's true too.

I'm all about embracing and creating abundance in all aspects of my life--but in this moment my abundance is butting heads with my acceptance.

Two weeks ago my husband and I were in the car, on our way somewhere, and talking about how certain things we have been striving for in life just aren't happening. We are not getting where we want to go as fast as we want to get there. We've had a year of blessings, and also a year of surprise obstacles.

We drove, and we talked. I could feel the tension in my body as we drove. I was still coming off the taut days without power or hot water. I could feel the worry as we projected into the future, fussed about the unknown, and stressed about our growing responsibilities.

I watched the landscape whiz by my window. Almost bare trees, dirty melting snow from the October blizzard. The land around me was bowing down to winter, folding up around its core to stay warm until spring came.

Everything around me was--and is--preparing for winter. A season of hibernation. A season without a harvest. A season of getting by.

As we drove I asked myself: if the natural world is so at peace with winter, then why were we so hell bent on trying to create abundance in a season of our lives that is so clearly marked for hunkering down? Why were we being so resistant to accepting and adjusting to change?

I turned to my husband. "What if we never got any further along in life than where we are now?" I asked.

"Well, that could happen," he replied.

"No, no--I mean, so what if nothing changed?" I responded. "What if we just continued on as we are? We'd be fine. Let's just imagine it, make peace with it, and move on with our lives. Without all this stress."

Acceptance. There will be times in my life--and yours, I'm guessing--that might just feel lacking. A stretch of non-abundance. Which, if you think about it, makes all that abundance possible. You can't have one without the other. Spring is meaningless without the winter that preceded it.

Acceptance of these seasons means a making a little bow to non-abundance. With palms together, head to heart. It means being willing to do what it takes to get through to the other side. It means changing, adjusting, and acknowledging, all of which are uncomfortable.

It means carrots and parsnips in the root cellar. Long underwear, big boots, and a pile of firewood. A different kind of abundance.

Acceptance means loving your dreams but not hurting if your ship hasn't come in yet. It means letting go of bitterness and jealousy. It means doing first things first when surprises come up. It means turning your hands over to accept what offerings the universe has for you in that moment, even if they aren't big-pimpin' yacht-style offerings.

Even if they're just enough to get you by til spring.

How about you? Are you in a spell of abundance or a season of winter? Are you feeling acceptance of either?

Time Out for Love

 

 

 

 

Flowers and love letters. Kisses under autumn leaves. Dinner and holding hands.

This weekend Dennis and I celebrate our fifth year of marriage. I want to take a moment to say thank you, Dennis, for five years of wedded bliss. Thank you for being my best friend, confidant, cheerleader, and sounding board, and for understanding me better than anyone else in the world. I love you.

xo Maeg

Postcard from a Walkabout // We All Float On: Tapping Into Everday Zen.

Hello! Welcome to the blog party! We'll be rockin' out, posting all day long, about all things good and creative. I've got some amazing guest stars posting soon, too. Since I'm just coming back after a long hiatus (aka The Walkabout), I thought it only appropriate that I'd start out with this post I wrote about my time away. (By the way, if you're viewing this in a reader, check out the site makeover here). Enjoy!

Welcome to the first installment of Postcards from a Walkabout, where I'll be sharing moments and musing from my summer of zen.  

 
 

It is the end of July. I am floating on my back on a rubber mat in the Carribbean, in the protected turquoise lagoon of a tiny island. I lean back, feel my body submerge slightly, and bob up and down with the waves while the sun warms me.

It feels. So. Good.

There is nothing to do. Nowhere to be. Nothing to think about. I even forget that tomorrow involves eight hours of travel back to New England. As far as I know in this moment, I am already home.

 

Rewind a few days. Same island, same beach. I am decked out in full snorkel gear and doggedly searching out tropical fish in a roped-in, snorkelers-only area of the lagoon. I might as well be looking for sea life in my bathtub, because the water is empty--save one sad, gray fish who swims by me over and over in a lame attempt to seem like a multitude.

Entrenched in my search, awkwardly stomping the sea floor in giant black flippers, I gaze out at all the people beyond the rope, just floating on mats, in tubes. “How lazy! They’re all just...FLOATING!” I think, before I stick my face in the water to stare at some sand and seaweed for awhile.

I didn't understand the floating. Yet.

Vacations are like that: it takes time to slough off the dead skin of day jobs and stress, errands and tile scrubbing, pent-up wishes and not being in the moment. I know I'm not the only one who's experienced this molting process. Shrugging off those layers is a discovery. My thoughts become different. What I care about in the moment is different. What’s normally a pretty focused and happy mind suddenly runs clear with waterfalls and mango juice and disinfecting sunlight.

But it seems that when I finally start to hit that sweet spot of peace and relaxation, of deep attunement, it’s time to grab the passports and go back to New England.

After the boat docking, van ride, plan ride, shuttle ride, and car ride, my husband and I were finally home from our trip and taking a walk around the neighborhood. As much as I love my home, I felt crushed and disappointed to be there. I needed to get back! To the waterfalls, and mango juice! To the floating.

We walked hungrily, stretching our legs, breathing real air for the first time all day, as I tried to verbalize my thoughts. "How do I get back there?" I asked my husband, plaintive. "It takes so long to get there, to feel like that, and then I have to leave."

"You don't get there," he said. "It's always there. You just tap into it."

I was floored. The floating is not a place. It's a state of mind.

Like most things that are new to me, this was not a new concept in the world. But I was shocked. I come from a place of striving, trying, going. That something so powerful as floating mind was always there, accessible but unseen, just waiting beyond a magic little elf door in the universe, was shocking to me. All I had to do was knock. Or "tap into it." No passports, travel, time, trapeze or other special skills required.

So I've been practicing my gentle knock, my tapping. Whenever floating mind seems to be floating away, I just tap in. "I can tap into it!" I say, and return to the moment with a breath. It takes a moment, a reminder to get there. I'm just as capable of being expansive and free here, as there. Now, as then. It is, of course, a practice. I often forget, and my clarity can still feel a little muted by the cacaphony of daily living.

I know this is more of a letter than a postcard. Either way, from the heart.

Tell me, what is your "floating mind" like? In what places and situations is it likely to show up spontaneously? What ways do you tap into it during your daily life?

xoxo, Maeg