Bringing the teachings of Yoga to life

Allowing time and space for what is bubbling beneath to simmer to the surface

Dear Community,

Happy New Year to you. It feels good to be back in your inbox today.

Local community, I am facilitating an intuitive writing workshop at Indigo Yoga Studio on Sunday, February 18th. You can learn more HERE and register HERE. Join me as we bring in the new year with community, clarity, and connection; I would love to see you there!

Stay tuned for announcements on upcoming online free intuitive and grief writing workshops for women and my online winter writing series next week.

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It was December 22, 2023. I was sitting on the damp, dormant lawn near the big pond at Heather Farm Park. The occasional individual or couple was walking with a dog on a leash, the sun was sinking slowly, the temperature was dropping, the flocks of geese were frantically flapping their wings and honking their horns overhead, and the call of the red-winged blackbirds returned for the winter, discreet in their whereabouts but visible in their vocals.

I was on the phone with my teacher, Mynx, for our bi-weekly session. A call I have grown steady and accustomed to for the past four years. I was sharing with her the amount of complaining I had been doing about a particular early morning noise nuisance in my community. After voicing my needs more than once to my manager, the matter had gone unresolved, and I was left feeling irritated and ignored.

I then confessed that my level of complaining had increased since my dad and Jax died over a year and a half ago. There it was again, my dad and Jax, my grief, at the heart of the matter. At the center of attention, and if it was not, it had a way of warning me.

She asked me how I could bring the teachings of Yoga to my current situation and offer supportive inquiry into what was lingering beneath.

The complaining was a symptom of something I needed that I was ignoring or unclear on. It had become an addiction to diverting me from the heartache and discomfort, which heightened with my dad and I's birthday and Christmas around the corner.

The circumstances with my manager felt unjust, the grumbling a gesture that, if I peel back the layers, was a way into the root cause of an unmet need and the deep well of sorrow swimming beneath the surface coupled with my attempts at avoiding sadness.

My grief was crushed between my desires, what I thought I should want, what I longed for, what was true, and what I needed. Grief was pushing up against it all and, if overlooked for too long, would continue to manifest in my body as overwhelmed, irritated, and negative thinking or speaking.

Complaining can provide temporary relief. Yet cleverly is the mind's way of distracting, and for good reason at times, to not overwhelm the nervous system. But it is also good practice to notice that it is a low-hanging fruit that will cause harm if left unattended and worth peeking behind the curtain of complaints if and when you are up for it.

We ended the call not before Mynx reminded me of my practice: catch on and hold presence when complaining arises and ask myself if I have the capacity to inquire within. If not, implement self-care to create capacity and clarity.

With the death of my father, my birthday holds an even firmer bittersweetness, expanding the borders of my birthday, and the many truths beneath the surface were not easy to untangle. Giving space for my sorrow was necessary, and nature would offer me what I needed.

The day before our birthday, I took myself to the hills behind my childhood home on Benham Ct. I needed a place that felt no need to address the world's problems and connect me to the ones I lost.

It was not a comfortable choice at first as I knew I had to cancel social commitments, but sometimes, what is more aligned with what you need is not always the easy and comfortable selection.

Choosing to hike alone told me I would miss out on seeing my friends, but if I decided to see them, I would miss out on the proper care my soul needed. In a perfect world, I would do both, but since grief came along, I have learned to put it first as much as I am willing and ready to.

Still torn on my decision, when I rounded the second incline, I asked my dad and Jax for a sign, a reminder that I was right where I needed to be and that they were close. I looked in the sky, and the wings of two hawks outstretched, coming in and out of focus round and round above me.

Pairs and birds of any kind, hawks, doves, and turkey vultures, remind me of my dad and Jax, and seeing them circling that afternoon reminded me that they were somewhere nearby. I like to believe it was a gift from the afterlife, a message from their spirits always steady and present, soaring on the hands of nature; I felt blessed, joyous, and tender.

I continued along the path, enjoying every simple pleasure: the sun warming my cheeks, the crunch of dirt under my sneakers, the low-slung branches, the cloudy blue sky, the call of the red-winged blackbirds nestled in the Walnut tree, the croak of the obscure toads, the drove of doves lumbering in the air and the way they would startle me as I approached them silently in the branches.

I was aware of a deep sense of the unknown, yet there was a profound connection to faith and freedom wherever the route led me.

Though unseen, holiness was visible everywhere I looked. It was beautiful to walk like that without the pressure to know or to reach an answer or conclusion but to drift and be captured by awe.

Toward the end of my hike, I met a man feeding mealworms to his loyal pack of stunningly beautiful bluebirds. Through his eyes, I felt like I was seeing a bluebird for the first time, which sparked a new connection and interest.

Nature allows me to temporarily leave the rational parts of life behind and connect with myself, my emotions, my dad, and Jax. It is where I am held in my grief and allow it to take up space. The longing contracts and expands or momentarily dissolves into the earth, and the heaviness begins to lift.

When I am open and willing to receive messages and signs from the universe, the natural world, and the afterlife, they appear right on cue, like magic.

"When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe." - John Muir

One benefit of complaining is that it can be a way into what is happening underneath. Having an unbiased individual who knows you well and can see you more clearly than you see yourself in times of confusion and suffering is the gift of reflection—highlighting what you are experiencing and inviting gentle inquiry, care, and transparency to your practice.

With time, one becomes clearer and skilled at attuning to one's capacity, body, and nervous system and remembering the wisdom and sense of belonging within oneself.

One of the values of nature is giving breathing room for that which wants to be felt and held in a safe, unbound space.

When we are held in the safe container of another or nature and free to express and feel what is on the surface without fear of judgment or the need to fix, we see more clearly with time, compassion, and curiosity and gain the courage to dive below the shallow and external.

On that hike, I could see how badly I had wanted my manager to see and hear me. I saw how severely I wanted her to solve the problem so I would have quiet in the morning and be free from one more trouble. Still, I couldn't see how much my complaining was consuming me, holding me back, keeping me fixated on disconnection and discouraging thinking, and distributing my peace.

The space between letting go of trying to fix it and being with and moving through the discomfort offered clarity and understanding. Honoring my grief was a way of remembering the love of the ones I lost and connecting me to what matters most.

I would return the next day on our actual birthday, though similar hills, the experience, and direction were different.

Stay tuned for the part 2 of this story.

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Mount Diablo