Be Still And Know.

GOOD NEWS (and don’t we all need it). As I sit to write, it’s been exactly two months since I took my big Trustfall and I am happy to report… I. got. caught. I am thisclose (93% to be exact) to reaching my goal and I genuinely don’t have the words yet to express how it feels to have people from so many parts of my life … and complete strangers too, do what they can to make this time easier for me. Even when there is so much pulling at our attention, not least of which is that I shared that post not even a full week before the hushed tone election and the constant cacophony in general that is being alive in these times… and even still, donations came steadily in, even as I lost steam on talking about it as we entered the holiday season. The first without my Mom. Aside from the genuine relief provided by having some cold hard cash when it has been quite literally impossible for me to work - it’s also been incredibly healing in a multitude of ways which I’m sure I’ll share more of further down the road. But two things I can confidently share now:

Generosity is a life giving force.

and

Vulnerability ain’t for the weak!

I probably couldn’t have picked a more unhinged and terrible-on-paper time to ask for personal aid and attention and yet and still… here we are together, swimming in a sea of love - or at the very least solidarity. If you’d like to contribute to the last 7% you can donate here. I am eternally grateful for each and every one of you that has supported me in this way already. I’ll be sending you a more “official” thank you and an offering as I make my way back toward my practice.

One of the great gifts my GoFundMe has brought, beyond relief, is spaciousness. I have always known this as one of my deepest needs and core pleasures, even when I’m not in an acute grief process. I have always found moments of it. My beloved slow morning practices. Going for a long summer walk down brownstone lined streets, sun glittering through trees while kids squeal in the park, passing couples sharing a late morning coffee at a small and rusty bistro table on the sidewalk. Breathing in the sudden burst of a sorbet colored sky. Letting myself get lost in the city, stumbling into whatever shop or gallery calls my name. And you know, plain old rotting on the couch watching a YouTube astrology video with a bag of Salt & Vinegar chips.

Well, this is the first time in SEVERAL years that I’ve had an extended amount of truly free time. And while this certainly hasn’t felt like a vacation by any means. The space to not have to grin and bear it has been invaluable. And it’s shown me just how unaccustomed I am to this level of slowing down. How little we get taught about how to grieve or be a skillful witness to the grieving of others. It’s an endurance sport in a society that is built off speed. But speed alone isn’t good for endurance, pace is. Try as we might, no one runs fast enough to run past death. Even the sink into winter has to be reclaimed for most of us - And what is Winter but the season of death itself. The old ways honored this. Our ancestors knew. I say this as someone who previously really actually DID try to keep up with the new year new me of it all - and then as recent as last year wondered why I was totally run down by the time February rolled around. Some awareness started to come online around this then, that it just might be because January isn’t the time for running at all.

And now that I’ve been sidelined - couldn’t be in the race if I wanted to, and I assure you, I don’t. Picture me behind the metal barrier, rooting you on, holding a cardboard sign that says:

“Where are you running? There’s no where to go!”

Facing death has shown me a bit of how deeply rooted a vast majority of us have been ingrained with this constant motion. And I’m a person who isn’t even in the corporate slog. I have pretty alternative work (that I love!). I’m a person who meditates, has a spiritual practice, at this point a pretty strong one. I create with people I believe in and care about. AND I realized the two weeks after my Mom passed that it had been at least 5 years since I had taken more than two days at a time without touching into something work related. That’s right. Where I’ve fully, fo’ real “taken off” more than a weekend at a time. Yes, I’ve always still checked in with “light” work even on trips, retreats, and vacations. Many times it only took like 30 mins here and there on slower days, a sneaky way of telling myself it’s “no big deal”.

That’s on me. But it’s really insidious.

I consider myself a person with a lot of time freedom - how have I managed that and still ended up feeling cramped and claustrophobic (which had been building long before last April) without more than a sip at a time of my beloved s p a c e?

I need to create, I love dreaming - it’s a part of me, it keeps me healthy, aligned. I like working towards something. I love talking to people! Building. It helps me put my energy somewhere.

And It’s been difficult to really fully stop aside from the moments where I am simply incapacitated. But the last two months have given enough distance from the hamster wheel to see that. I recently had some body work and the practitioner shared that her teacher said every 7 days we should rest a day. Every 7 weeks we should rest a week. Every 7 months we should rest a month. Every 7 years we should rest a year. Food for thought. Doesn’t that sound some combination of wonderful, daunting, and not at all realistic? I wonder why (capitalism).

Ideas are still pouring through and I don’t have the energy yet to act on them. I can still hear the constant call and response of the creative and the commercial. But grief is a depleting energy - and I’m a constantly wrung out sponge, everytime I think there’s no water left, out comes a hidden reserve.

Swami Kripalvananda aka Swami Kripalu for whom Kripalu Center is named.

Although with more resistance than usual, last month I went to my quarterly Sacred Artists residency at Kripalu - a place that’s become a true refuge and healing home away from home the past almost two years. A checkpoint of honoring seasonal and creative cycles. It’s also been a journey learning about the legacy of Swami Kripalu the teacher, yogi, adept, playwright, artist for whom the center is named. Before it was a wellness center it was an ashram based on love, practice, and service. I’ve had the privilege of talking to Ras last year in the before times, one of the few people still around from the ashram days in preparation for a Custom Meditation Painting I’ll be creating this year. And this time we all got a visit from a man named Michael. A lean, spry 75 year old with long white hair regaling us with stories (while sitting in full lotus) of his time living there when yoga was ultra counter culture, and his civilian friends referred to his beloved home as “freak mountain” - which actually, I quite like. Along with his many decades of practice, he also made films, he met his wife there, and he shared more about his experience with the man who started it all.

He spoke about an eventful day Swami decided to swim solo in the river. It was more aggressive than he realized and he couldn’t keep up, he couldn’t get out. Beating his body against the rushing currents, trying to make his way to the banks again. He fought, he struggled. He started to exhaust himself, he started to be taken under. Yet through his panic he heard the words “Stop swimming Swami”. And even though it was counter intuitive.

He surrendered.

He stopped struggling.

He got still.

And as he let go, he began to float.

As he began to float, he was swept away on the river’s course. Now being safely held in her arms instead of being swatted down by their stroke. He was spotted, caught, and pulled out by a group of people further downstream.

In so many ways the past few years have been me keeping my head above water. With some success, and even joy, but my arms have grown tired. The past few months have been more of the flail. At times nearly drowning in the loss, at times lifted up by the swell of ecstatic grace you only meet through suffering. Mourning all the different ages and versions of my Mom. Mourning the ways I’ve died too. They don’t tell you that about losing someone close to you - when they go, you do too. At least who you got to be with them. It doesn’t end with death of course, we’ve each been reborn, and I’m getting to know the new us.

So far, I like them too, but I’ll miss the old ones.

Every bit of community care I’ve received has been like a voice piercing the panic telling me “stop swimming swami”. A reminder to let myself float even in these choppy waters. And that, in fact, it’s the only way to survive them. And how does a body float? Air in the lungs. Which makes the body slightly less dense than the water it’s submerged in. In other words … internal spaciousness.

I don’t know how long this river twists and turns, or who may be there to pull me out. Or if there is an out to be pulled from. I suspect there’s not. So instead, I’m happy to settle for gentler down the stream. A bit of stillness atop flowing waters.

When I checked in with Spirit for guidance around this Winter season I heard “Tend to the Temple” I understood that as the temple that is my physical home and the temple that is my body and being. I offer this to you as a little tending never hurts anybody. In this time of profound dissolution I know a little consolidation will do me good. The contraction before expansion. The exhale before the inhale. And in case I wasn’t picking up on the subtlety of the message, I’ve also come down with a sinus infection since right before the new year. Somewhat mild - except my ear is really stopped up by the pressure. Muffling the sounds of the outside world - softening the edges of external noise and pulling me in in in. To my own ground. Quieting any voices that aren’t from Spirit, me, trusted teachers, or my nearest and dearest. Being where I am and nowhere else. Available to a lot less horizontally so I can be available to more in the vertical.

Resting in the season and space of Water - Winter, where nature shows us that death and dormancy is a part of life too - panic free. Guilt free.

Your Fellow Wanderer,

Allison