Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
and also...
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A song I’m loving:
Good morning to you. A reminder to perhaps soften your shoulders, maybe lift your eyes from the phone or computer for just a moment, turn your neck from side to side, take a breath, feel your feet, feel your hands, feel yourself.
What I’m feeling most after the swirl, feelings, and waves of this past week (how on earth is it still January?) :
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief. So very much of that.
And also, a deep devotion to staying close to compassion, to presence, to love.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, a river of trust in all who have already been working toward a more beautiful world for all beings.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, turning toward the wisdom of those who know what to do next, those who know how to be in the unknown, those who know how to stay rooted in determination.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage, Yes, grief.
And also, a sprouting hyacinth. A bout of laughter. A tree’s wisdom. One breath.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, conviction of what matters, of what I value, of what I can give.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, an ever-widening heart, somehow finding more and more room for deepening Here-ness.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, patience with the tender process of leaning into community.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, the remembrance that none of this is mine to do alone, ever.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, softening. Tenderness. Care.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, a refusal to let their fuckery distract me from my humanity.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, a willingness to be perceived in my integrity.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, all the beauty, goodness, and generosity that already exists.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, poetry. Art. Music. Hiking trails. Rolls of film to be used.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, words to write. Gifts to share. Space to hold.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, the deep knowing that so many things must come crumbling down before something more true, more just, more life-giving can take their place.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, so many helpers. So many activists and artists, organizers and earth stewards, herbalists and poets, teachers and storytellers and frontline responders and builders and grievers and tenders and and and.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, the capacity to meet feelings fully, to let them move through me, to not turn away from what is real and true and asking to be experienced.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, possibility. Hope as a practice. The moon.
Yes, fear. Yes, grief. Yes, rage.
And also, the humble wisdom that comes from falling apart.
Yes, fear. Yes, grief. Yes, rage.
And also, the strength you feel in your bones when you emerge from the falling.
Yes, rage. Yes, fear. Yes, grief. Yes, rage.
And also, remembering your contributions do not need to be or solve or fix or heal or change everything to add to the sea of change that is created with endless hands.
Yes, rage. Yes, fear. Yes, grief. Yes, rage.
And also, the willingness to be wrong, to not know, to have much to learn.
Yes, fear. Yes, grief. Yes, rage.
And also, the power to/in/of/with the people.
Yes, rage. Yes, fear. Yes, grief. Yes, rage.
And also, the endless well of creativity we can pull from, always.
Yes, fear. Yes, grief. Yes, rage.
And also, leaning into discomfort. Leaning into lostness. Leaning into wobbliness. Leaning into uncertainty. Leaning into it with deep courage.
Yes, rage. Yes, fear. Yes, grief. Yes, rage.
And also, neuroplasticity. The possibility of change. The capacity for things to become different, even if we don’t always see the outcome of it all.
Yes, fear. Yes, rage. Yes, grief.
And also, what’s helping lately: Loving, intentional movement. Revisiting beloved books that continue feeling somehow new. Staying close to my small world, the one off screens. Heart talks with friends and my husband. Nettle/Oatstraw/Spearmint infusion all day. Conversations with my three year old. Writing my book from the truest place I can. Somatic therapy. Noticing where nature is coming alive, even now. A haircut. Trusting the timing of things. Making room for the hard and the good and the liminal and all of it, all at once, knowing it is all so very real. Remembering who I want to be and practicing it, over and over again, and forgetting, and tending to the forgetting, and practicing again.
What is your AND ALSO? Please share below if you’re open to it.
Thank you, as always, for being here.
△ This courage, this compassion, this conviction, this power
△ As the ground shakes, how do we become the ground?
△ How we will get through, with Brittany Cooper and Rebecca Traister
△ “We have no choice but to be ready to fight, and we will”
△ It is our turn to carry the world
△ What is your role in social change?
△ A beloved writing spot, holding me in the process
With care,
Lisa
And also, reading powerful, love-infused reminders on substack. Thank you for this. It touched tender places :-)
And also…holding and honoring all the parts of me that just want to feel safe.