The only lasting truth is change

and four things

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A song I’m loving:

the fog is lifting, 35mm film

1 — Yesterday morning, my phone’s battery was literally expanding inside my phone to the point of cracking the case. I shut it off immediately when I Googled it and saw it’s a dangerous fire hazard; my husband put it on our dutch oven in case it exploded (lol). I ordered a new phone that will come in a few days, and in the meantime I’ve been without one. My phone almost exploding feels like the most obvious metaphor for LEAVE ME ALONE! PUT ME AWAY! STOP USING ME AS A DISTRACTION! STAY WITH THE DISCOMFORT! UNHOOK! It was honestly hilarious, the way I immediately interpreted it as a nod from the universe to take an honest look at the ways my phone has been keeping me plugged into much more than my body and brain can possibly hold, process, grasp, feel.

It’s been a sweet relief to take a forced break and use it as a time to examine what needs changing, what needs shifting, what I haven’t wanted to be honest with myself about, because change is hard. It often feels fumbly and itchy and wobbly. Yet allowing change in our daily habits, patterns, and behaviors feels like one of the most accessible ways to practice what we say we want. It feels like a tangible reminder of our agency, our fluidity, our ability to undo what we no longer need to do. So I’m noticing where my habits/patterns/behaviors go against what I claim to want, and I’m practicing something different. It’s confronting and tender, and also a reminder that the only lasting truth is change. And when change happens at a micro level, I am reminded it can also happen outside of me, in the wider world, which eases some of the existential feelings that my phone has been trying to numb.

overflowing, 35mm film

2 — I got my first two blurbs back for my book, from two people I admire deeply. The blurb I received in my inbox yesterday made me cry with its kindness, its genuine reflection. Some part of me deflected and said, “she must not have actually read the book to have written such an incredibly positive endorsement.” It’s the part of me that feels more comfortable pushing away positive feedback than I do letting it reach my marrow. It’s the part of me that is afraid of what it would mean to be fully seen in my gifts. It’s the part of me that still struggles to deeply trust that what I have to give is enough. This fearful part isn’t my current, adult self; it’s a younger part who still visits sometimes — who needs reminders from current me that we’re okay, we’re safe, it’s safe to let love in, it’s safe to be seen, it’s safe to be who you are in the world.

When I soothed that younger, afraid part of me instead of sinking into self-loathing for her arrival yet again, my adult self was able to absorb the words I received about my book. I was able to let the absorption rearrange my old tendencies to push away goodness, to keep intimacy out. This rearranging happens every time I notice a younger part of me in need of my loving attention and I respond with love instead of annoyance. It happens every time I remember I am not my reactions, but instead my reactions tell me something about what I once needed. It happens every time I undo my natural impulses and let my 38-year-old self be at the front and center of my life, the version that knows how to tend to and nurture all the younger parts of me who still question whether or not I’m okay.

It is a gift to remember that even the tendencies, patterns, and strategies we wish away the most are there for a reason. That they were once so incredibly adaptive, wise, and necessary for some part of us. That they show up to keep us safe, protect us, make sure we’re okay. That sometimes, they don’t realize we’re adults now with choice, agency, and dignity. It is a gift to tend to those strategies with compassion and care instead of shame and judgment. It is a gift to recognize all the ways we can be with ourselves outside of the punitive, harsh, critical tones we often see elsewhere. It is a gift to offer ourselves what we need — and to take it in when others try to do the same. It is a gift to notice moments where we can rearrange what is still stuck in old shapes inside. It is a gift to be in the practice of becoming this person for ourselves.

brightness, 35mm film

3 — Come new to this day.
Remove the rigid
overcoat of experience,
the notion of knowing,
the beliefs that cloud
your vision.

Leave behind the stories
of your life. Spit out the
sour taste of unmet expectation.
Let the stale scent of what-ifs
waft back into the swamp
of your useless fears.

Arrive curious, without the armor
of certainty, the plans and planned
results of the life you’ve imagined.
Live the life that chooses you, new
every breath, every blink of
your astonished eyes.
— Rebecca del Rio

Arrive curious, without the armor of certainty. I’ve been asking myself, how can I stop knowing the untrue beliefs that got build in me so long ago? How can I release my grip on being certain as a method of protection? How can I stay close to a Beginner’s Mind and let it shape the way I see, the way I be? What am I assuming I know that I might actually be entirely wrong about? What am I assuming I don’t know that I actually have a thick knowing of? What would it be like to set down my need to be sure and instead widen into listening — truly, deeply listening? How am I already practicing this? How can I keep practicing?

a world of flowers, 35mm film

4 — I keep thinking about how none of us have ever done this before. None of us have been a human in a time like this until right now… we’re all first-timers here, figuring it out a moment at a time. We’re all wild beings that have been entrapped by systems far too constricting for our humanity. We’re all navigating grief and fear and tenderness and rage and devastation, personally and collectively. We’re all facing a world that feels more and more unstable. I hope this remembrance brings some gentleness to however you are handling it all. I hope you can stay really soft with the ways you’re responding to all that is unfolding inside and around you, probably imperfectly because hello, you’re only human. I hope you can notice the ways you’re actually showing up as the person you want to be already. And I hope this self-gentleness can ripple outward into a world that is desperate for something other than more pain. I’m over here trying alongside you.

Thank you, as always, for being here.

△ I shared a short reading of Joanna Macy’s potent words

△ A podcast that has been in my ears & heart often lately

△ The long dark

△ Breathing with the forest

△ I am loving Samin’s new book, Good Things

△ We must uncenter our minds from ourselves

△ Ever-present reminders of brightness in the dark

all that is being illuminated.

With care,
Lisa