What do you turn toward?
Notes on guidance from the seen and unseen
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A song I’m loving:
The light is fading, sunshine dim;
I turn toward darkness as a hymn.
The veil is thin, leaves become red;
I turn toward wisdom from the dead.
The days get shorter, night grows long;
I turn toward medicine of song.
The wide unknown reveals itself;
I turn toward trust within myself.
The rage, it burns up from within.
I turn toward guidance from my kin.
The ache is tender to the touch;
I turn toward breath when it’s too much.
The beauty, too, here right beside;
I turn toward all, I do not hide.
The longing pulses in the heart;
I turn toward tending to my part.
The path unfolds in front of me;
I turn toward who I want to be.
The mystery comes more alive;
I turn toward what wants to arrive.
The present moment, all that’s here;
I turn toward love within the fear.
I wrote these words yesterday after asking a particular ancestor what she wanted me to remember. When I listened, she urged me to answer the questions: What do you notice? What do you turn toward? The words poured out in just a few minutes, without much thought, an incantation that seemed to move through me instead of from me. It felt cheesy at first: too obvious, not “deep” enough, not anything a real poet would ever write. And then, I remembered who helped me write it and suddenly it felt much deeper, coming from the root system of myself, emerging from the invisible presence of people I have loved. I was missing my grandmother and she reminded me what’s true doesn’t always need to be impressive; it just needs to be expressed. And what’s swirling within doesn’t always need fixing; it just needs medicine, of which there are endless kinds.
As I reflect on what I notice and what I turn toward, I am reminded of the medicine that exists everywhere: in the crisp air on a neighborhood walk. In the voice of a beloved friend. In the willingness to stay with complexity. In the nourishment of a daily herbal infusion. In self-forgiveness. In the texture of a flower petal. In watching the unfolding sunset with awe. In asking for help. In true rest. In stepping into the unknown with not only surrender, but deep trust. In holding both fear and possibility with open palms, letting all of life touch each of them, knowing both are so wildly real. In letting what I have to offer be enough, even when it is so far from being everything. In a single breath. In trying again.
And when what I notice starts to feel overwhelming, scary, difficult, grief-filled, heartbreaking… I can feel it and ask what I might need to turn toward. I can listen to and trust my grandmother’s wisdom when I am not sure how to access my own. I can call on guidance from beyond myself. We all can.
There is a lot of fear swirling in my body as I think about the upcoming election and all that will reveal itself as a result. There is the holding of contradictions, of grief, of disappointment. There is a tensing, a tightening, a desire to curl up into a ball and hide from the world. There is an urge to control, to figure out, to predict. I notice myself catastrophizing, assuming, looking toward everything that could go wrong. Bless these parts of me who think keeping me safe always requires preparing for the worst.
And yet alongside this fear, there is trust in medicine of all kinds, in what could be, in facing it all with the kind of courage my ancestors carried. Alongside the tightening, there are spaces within me that are actually expanding, widening, making room for more. Alongside the terror, there is a sense that something more beautiful is growing, even when I cannot see or even feel it quite yet. There is quiet clarity in my choice to vote, in who I am voting for, in why. There is a trust in what I can’t yet see.
Here is the medicine I want to remember during this darkening and this wide-open unknown, this portal we are moving closer to, based on what I’m noticing and turning toward in the midst:
1 — There may not be a fix to what you fear; there may only be an opening to tend to it lovingly.
2 — You cannot do the part of millions; You can do your small part with as much heart as possible.
3 — You get to choose who you want to be, regardless of the outcome of anything.
4 — When you zoom out, beyond your own personal grievances or feelings, you get to see so much more clearly; you get to act so much more clearly.
5 — Look around you when you assume you must carry it all alone. Look at all the others doing the lifting alongside you. Look at the web you’re part of.
6 — Call upon seen and unseen guidance whenever you feel stuck trying to figure it out on your own. You are never truly on your own.
7 — Let the river of feelings be a current flowing through you instead of a stuck dam. Let the flow remind you everything begins and ends, sometimes again and again. Let it move you.
8 — Stay with the tenderness. It is not a problem; it is aliveness.
9 — You can trust what you know. You can let yourself not know.
10 — Your grief ever-deepens your capacity to become more present.
11 — There is beauty in your incessant desire to understand all sides, all opinions, all viewpoints, all perspectives. It grows your humanity.
12 — There is beauty in trusting your own opinions, your own viewpoints, your own perspectives, even when others do not agree.
13 — Your willingness to practice compassion in deep, abiding ways does not negate your rage, your anger, your betrayal, your hurt. Both get to exist.
14 — Your inherently-imperfect practice of all of this isn’t a personal flaw you need to fix, but a reality you get to continuously learn to embrace with more accepting and open arms.
15 — Write cliché poems guided by your ancestors. Let those poems become prayers.
16 — Ask yourself what you notice; ask yourself what you can turn toward.
17 — Silliness is not a betrayal to what is serious, but a buoy to survive it.
18 — There are generous, kind, loving, compassionate, wise, tender, hopeful humans everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. I promise.
19 — You get to work on becoming one of those people every single day; what a gift.
20 — One breath. Then another. Then another. Then another.
And finally: stay with the heart. It tends to be the most loving guide there is.
Thank you, as always, for being here. Take extra good care.
△ Voting resources, for those who need them
△ Miranda July and Esther Perel on the rebirth of desire
△ Things take the time they take
△The wise Jane Hirshfield on time, mystery, and kinship
△ A magical Samhain meditation
△ “Our belonging is not contingent on our silence; our humanity is contingent on breaking it.”
△ Cultivating a courageous heart
△ The depth of inspiration from my first training weekend
△ And some suggestions on taking care during this next week: vote (down the whole ballot) if you are able to. Have gentle and honest and real and heartful conversations. Stretch and move your body. Stay hydrated. Go to bed early. Log off. Surround yourself with trees as often as possible. Turn toward nature’s lessons. Put your hand over your heart and trust your decisions. Ask yourself if there is more you might want to do. Ask yourself if you may need to do less. Stay rooted in connection, in community. Plan your meals to ease decision-making. Relax your shoulders, un-tense your jaw. Ask for more hugs. Be around children. Read poetry. Have many cups of tea. Let yourself feel what arises, knowing all of it makes so much sense. Let yourself move through one moment at a time. xx
With care,
Lisa
Reading this, I couldn't help but think about how we often view 'the unknown' as something to be feared or conquered. What if, instead, we approached it like an artist approaches a blank canvas? With curiosity, openness, and a willingness to co-create something beautiful, even if we don't know what it will be yet?
Lisa, your poem deserves to be published far and wide. It speaks to me, is timely, is beautiful.
Thank you.