The doorway of discomfort

... and five disconnected yet somehow connected things

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A song I’m loving:

The path to Moonlight cabin, 35mm film

1. On Friday evening, I did a labyrinth walk facilitated monthly in my town. Dozens of candles lined the circular and swirly path. A harpist accompanied the walk with music that seemed to take me to another place while I spent 40 minutes carefully walking to the center of the labyrinth and back out again, something that would take one minute at my normal pace. I am a fast walker; moving at an extremely meditative snail’s pace was uncomfortable at first, but soon brought me more fully into my body . I eventually craved each methodical step. I moved even slower than at the start. I noticed the ball of my feet touching the ground first, and then the arches, and finally the toes. By the end, I noticed myself wanting to move more gently: on the walk back to my car, buckling my seatbelt, picking music for the drive, arriving home, getting ready for bed. All gently.

   Ever since the walk, I’ve been thinking about how many things that were once uncomfortable are now desired: deep belly breaths. Reading instead of being on my phone. Yoga. Sharing my writing. True connection. Drinking more water. Confronting my biases. Growing. Changing. So many things that once took so much effort now feel more natural, like I can’t imagine not doing or having them. But it took moving with the discomfort for a while to get to the place where that discomfort faded, if not completely then at least partially. I’ve been reminding myself of this lately as I embark on a deeper layer of healing that, in many ways, feels like entirely new terrain: it isn’t supposed to feel comfortable at first. I am forming new muscles, new memory in my bones. I am taking a different approach, one I will need to live into for a while before fully understanding. But I trust the discomfort will eventually turn into something else — that it is taking me somewhere important. I trust the gentle path. I trust each impossibly slow step. Discomfort can be a doorway.

Afternoon light, 35mm film

2. How Do I Keep Going, Part Two: Bake cookies and brownies for the party, even though only 10 people are coming. Unfurl from assuming you must do things alone. Notice the ways you are letting connection in. Drink a glass of water before your coffee in the morning. Trust that arising grief is asking to be felt; trust that feeling it will reshape it into something more than ache. Pause to take the big breath you need in moments you think it might be awkward to. Allow yourself to adjust plans and expectations at any time. Keep paying attention, even when it hurts. Don’t accidentally skip lunch. Give yourself more time than is comfortable to recalibrate, to reevaluate, to sit with where you’re being called to go next. Let the giggles out. Stop stifling your joy as if it is a betrayal to your pain. Write the way you naturally write instead of the way you think will be “better”. Let your voice be your voice. Go for a walk, even if it is raining. Don’t fear the elements, the earth’s responses, nature’s outpour. Ask for a back rub when you’re sore. Notice all the patterns that are re-patterning in ways you don’t often let yourself recognize. Feel the rightful rage you feel when you look at how the “leaders” of the world are failing humanity. Feel the wide range of yourself. Bring your camera with you, even if you assume there won’t be anything interesting. Let yourself be surprised. Say no when you need more capacity for other things. Let your shoulders drop. Try a new recipe. Stretch. Sob. Start. Stop. Slow down. Sing.

Greenhouse goodness, 35mm film

3. Getting comfortable with what people think of you is not as easy as it sounds in a beautiful therapy meme, is it? The thought of strangers thinking negatively about me actually makes my stomach turn, even still. The idea that people who haven’t ever talked to me, or even those closest to me, have certain judgments or assumptions about who I am or why I do what I do makes every layer of my skin crawl. It always has, even as early as elementary school when I would wear clothes I thought the other kids in my class would like, even if I didn’t like them. The desperation to be liked has been sewn into me, maybe into all of us in some ways, which makes being a “public person” feel like the opposite of what I am made for sometimes.

   Every time I’ve chosen to share my desire for a free Palestine, or my feelings about world events, or my personal stories, or my politics, or my opinions, or my ideas, or my anything… I’ve felt a pushing against the false idea that the safest thing to be is neutral. Michelle Kim recently wrote, “being neutral will not save you.” This is a lesson I’ve been unlearning the last seven years of sharing publicly. Parts of myself corrode every time I share what I think someone wants to hear instead of what I want to say. My integrity builds every time I show up with my truest values and beliefs in tact instead of with the desire to please leading the way. And my interior strengthens every time I am faced with backlash or judgment and, instead of crumbling, I see myself and others clearly. I feel this clarity deepening lately. I feel the fear of being perceived incorrectly fading. I feel an okayness growing where my stomach once turned. Not entirely — not completely — but more. And it reminds me, again, that what was once impossibly uncomfortable might soon become a little easier, a little less weighty. The hope in that.

Ferns gone wild, 35mm film

4. Time is feeling more and more precious. As I witness people losing so much, I feel the preciousness of time, space, and safety being amplified. I find myself exploring how I really want to spend my time and energy on this earth — what I want my contribution to be — how I want to be. These visions used to be more grand in scale, more about big impact than truly listening for my right-sized answers. Lately, the vision feels smaller, more intimate, more quiet. It feels more about being my truest self in the world and sharing myself from that place, rather than trying to become my biggest self. It feels more about getting more comfortable showing up for my neighbors than I do showing up for thousands of followers. It feels more about looking my daughter in the eyes when she’s frustrated and letting her frustration be witnessed instead of hushed. It feels more about writing in ways that register as deeply true and heartfelt instead of in ways I think are more literary or more talented or more impressive. It feels more about truly aligning with myself and, in turn, aligning with the world in meaningful ways. In this, there is grief and letting go of what I once thought would fulfill me; in this, also, is ample possibility for a truer way of living.

5. I am astonished by our continual ability to keep going. I am astonished by the ways we keep trying. I am astonished by how we keep envisioning what else could be possible in a crumbling world. I am astonished by the ways we reckon with ourselves in order to become more true, in order to see more clearly. I am astonished by those who keep going to work every day, keep caring for children, keep paying their bills, keep waiting at stop lights, keep smiling at the grocery clerk, keep planting new seeds in their garden, keep holding space for the healing and health of others, keep tending to themselves in order to tend to all that is unfolding outside of themselves. I am astonished. The astonishment helps ease the ache. Thank you for helping ease the ache.

I haven’t consumed a lot of new material media-wise this week, so I suppose that’s what has caught my eye and heart most… the space. The room to sink deeper into what I’ve already consumed. The time to digest what I’ve carefully taken in. The desire to linger with the bright green hills leading to the coast, the ones I know will only be green for a little while longer before returning to their brown, rusty hues. This feels important, this digesting what we’ve already consumed. It feels like care to take more time with things, to linger, to stay with what we’re taking in a bit longer before jumping to something else. It feels like clearing cobwebs and forming real attention, which feels especially potent during times like these. So that’s where I’m at this week, and I hope you find some space and time to really sink into what you’re consuming, too. More next time.

With care,
Lisa