I keep notebooks. I bring my thoughts, dreams, and struggles to their pages. I also write down things that move me with their timeliness, grit, beauty, or wisdom.
A couple of nights ago, as I was preparing for bed, I pulled one of these old notebooks out—because it had been an emotional day, and I needed something to soothe me. I’d given Alfred, my beloved dork of a Chiweenie, over to the care of my daughter as I was days away from leaving to live in Japan for four months. This meant I also had to say goodbye to her, and after we hugged, she handed me a squishy mama koala bear hugging a baby bear. “You gave this to me when I went to South Africa for four months,” she told me.
I had no recollection of that, but it isn’t really surprising, because that was during one of the worst times of my life.
“I thought you could bring it with you,” my daughter added.
I didn’t cry then, or when I watched her drive away, or when I got home, even though my loft was so quiet, even though I was hovering in that liminal space of what had been and what will be.
Feeling unmoored, I climbed on my meditation bench. That’s when the waves of emotion swelled and stormed . . . but I sat, I stayed, and soon, everything cleared.
After brushing my teeth, I crawled into bed, calm and tender. That’s when I pulled a random notebook from my pile. It happened to be the one I was writing in after everything in my life had fallen apart. The first page I opened to had some lines from a horoscope written on it.
“This Sagittarius moon, let joy’s absence be a sign that points you elsewhere.” And “Here comes the commotion. Get out of the way and stay put. Wait until it’s over and then some. This will need time to settle. There’s no move to make until after the dust clears.”
On the page across from that, I’d written:
Bring something fresh to the altar. Foster a sense of the sacred, connect with that. Do not forget the Refuge. You hold such goodness. Bring the best into and out of each new moment, time, space. Get packed. Travel lightly. Be ready for whatever’s on its way.
I flipped through the other pages, and lines rose up like fierce friends, ready to stand with me, no matter what I was facing.
Brave the next.
Welcome the good.
Practice being curious and messy, stupid and brave.
Remember—this isn’t a transition. This is your life.
The very last thing I wrote in that notebook? Be here. Yes, even here. It’s where the blessings hide.
May you live light and shine.
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