The rise and fall

Trusting our own ebb and flow

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A song I’ve been enjoying:

A hike in the Columbia River Gorge, Oregon 2017

Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. Rise. Repeat forever.

This is the pattern of my life, of the seasons I move through, of the pulse of what it means to be a person. I have moments, weeks, seasons where I feel the rise — the upward motion, the momentum, the forward movement, the inspiration or motivation or boost or ignition or whatever word you may use to describe that innate sense of growth we experience. And then, at some point, the fall comes: the flattening, the feeling of being out of steam, the questioning, the doubting, the sadness, the depression, the lack of energy, the stagnancy. And then, the rise comes again eventually, to be followed by another fall, and another rise, and and and.

I used to panic when a fall moment or season came. I’d think all my “progress” was for nothing, or that my growth had stopped, or that I wasn’t as healed or well or enough as I initially thought. I’d feel a sense of giving up, of “what’s the point?”, of questioning everything as if nothing up until that point mattered at all. I’d think everything was doomed, that I was doomed, that life was just destined to be bad.

Now, though, I know better. Most of the time, at least. I know the fall is just part of being a living being — that it leads to a deeper understanding of who I am and the world I’m living in — that it will eventually lead me back to a season of feeling the rise again. I know the fall is necessary, even when it hurts. I know the fall doesn’t make me bad or broken or wrong. I know the fall isn’t a weakness — it’s a soft spot that needs tending, that needs to be held, that needs to be given the space and patience it requires in order to become more than itself.

As you probably know, I’ve been in a fall for a while now — in a season of not knowing, of wondering what the point of writing words like these is, of questioning and clinging to moments of energy and wondering when I will “feel like myself” again. Well, something is shifting now. I signed up for a yoga class tomorrow — something I haven’t done since becoming a mother. I bought a new cookbook. I finally painted the windowsills in my home, which has been on my to-do list for over a year. I am breathing deeper and longer. I feel a little more steady, a little more grounded, a little more me. And I’m not clinging to this felt sense of the rise returning. I’m just trusting it to usher me into the places I’m meant to go next. I’m trusting it to teach me what I need to remember right now. I’m trusting it will buoy me just enough to support me through the next fall.

I’m not entirely out of the fall, either — there is still so much heaviness and confusion, so much unknown and space to re-occupy within myself and things to start doing and undoing again. It isn’t so black and white: either total fall or total rise. But the rise energy is feeling more and more present, and I am so grateful.

There are things I try to remember when I’m more deep in the fall. Things I try to anchor to when I feel like I’m floating in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight, no relief to be found, no end to find solace in. I want to share some of the reminders I do my best to hold onto in those seasons, in the hopes that they give you a life raft of sorts to hold you through the big waves that seem to just keep coming at you, knocking you over and making it hard to trust who you are underneath it all.

Things to remember when you are in a fall, whether it be a moment or a season:

• There is nothing wrong with you for being where you are. It is simply the place you find yourself right now, and it will change, and you will change, and it will guide you in ways you might not understand yet.

• You are still yourself. You are still you. You haven’t lost the parts of you that make you feel most in your own essence, energy, or expression. Those parts just might be a little hidden right now, but they are not gone. It might take some digging, some uprooting, some tending to… but you are still you, even now. Even here. Even in the fall.

• It’s okay to need more and give less when you have less to give and more to move through. Similar to not always rising, we also can’t always be giving giving giving, doing doing doing. We need periods of asking, of receiving, of needing, of taking a step back from showing up for everything and remembering how to show up for ourselves again, letting others do the same.

• Questioning whether or not things will ever get better doesn’t mean things will never get better. It simply means it’s harder to see right now because of the fog the fall brings. When we can remember fogginess doesn’t mean impossibility, the questioning feels a little less scary.

• The healing and growth you’ve done up until this point isn’t wasted, lost, or for no reason. It is woven within you, held in your bones, and piecing together to become part of the version of you that will soon emerge.

• The idea that we’re supposed to constantly and consistently be one way denies our humanness. We are meant to be complex, to feel many things, to hold dark and light, to move through challenge and ease, to be and feel and experience all of it. Being in a fall isn’t a personal failure — it’s a symbol of humanity.

• Falls don’t always exist for a reason. Sometimes, the residue and buildup of life just takes its toll. We don’t always need to search for why, or dissect exactly what is happening, or seek some big a-ha from what we experience. It’s okay to just notice where you are and approach yourself with openness, with kindness.

• As easily as we use parts of ourselves against us, we can also use parts of ourselves as allies during periods of being in the fall. See if you can tap into the parts of you that aren’t hurting — the parts of you that know what to do — the parts of you that have always believed in your own goodness and beauty. Use those parts as guides, as resources, as anchors in the wave.

• You can access joy, connection, sweetness even in the midst of the fall. You can light your favorite candle. You can pour your sparkling water in a fancy glass instead of drinking it out of the can. You can go for a five minute walk when a longer one isn’t feasible. You can listen to a playlist that feels like home. Don’t assume it has to be all or nothing, all good or all bad. Create moments of aliveness amid the depth to remember you can hold more than one thing at once. Stepping out of all-or-nothing thinking is an expansive gift.

These reminders have felt so supportive for me when I’ve found myself feeling like I’m about to drown in the metaphorical ocean of the fall. And sometimes, I forget these things — we all probably do. Yet being willing to return to the things that anchor you, the things that hold and support you, the things that remind you of who you truly are underneath the gunk and hardness and confusion, is an act of compassion.

Be gentle with you. Give yourself grace. Allow yourself to be human. Let yourself forget and remember again. Do it all imperfectly. Start over. Start over again. And again. Don’t hold yourself captive to how things were 10 minutes ago — let yourself find some solid ground again in this moment and the next one. And know everything shifts, changes, and evolves eventually — even you.

△ In Praise of Pointless Goals

△ Art — I have an old Georgia O’Keeffe book on my coffee table and it brings joy.

A mindscape from Georgia O’Keeffe

△ These questions

△ Revisiting lots of episodes of Hurry Slowly

△ These words from Yrsa Daley-Ward

anger as a taxing but necessary portal

△ The writing of Lucille Clifton

△ This song in full sounds like the feeling I get when hope returns to my body:

△ Wanting to become a better cook

△ This stunning farmhouse designed by LaTonya Yvette

△ Go Offline

With care,
Lisa