Posts Categorized: Confusion to Clarity

Paranoia? Pronoia? Gratitude!

in Confusion to Clarity, Fall, Getting Unstuck, Noticing, Remembering

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Happy Thanksgiving!

This is my favorite season for self-reflection. My current reflections have taken me back fifty years.

It’s 1976. I’m 28 years old and already I’ve accomplished every image of success I’ve made up in my head. Happy marriage. Meaningful and creative profession. Cute home in a community and state I adore. Check. Check. Check.

But something feels wrong at the core and I’m starting to blame my existence itself. Desperate, I reach out to family, friends, teachers, casual acquaintances. Each of them offers up a roulette wheel of theories. Saturn Return. Quarter-Life Crisis. Crisis of Faith. Existential Crisis.  Spiritual Emergency. Spiritual Emergency. What is this thing called Spiritual? I wonder, desperate to escape the daily cocktail of depression spiked with anxiety.

I‘ve vowed to explore anything that might pull me out of this quicksand. But spirituality?Wasn’t that a part of religion? My childhood experience offered only self-righteous dogmatism. I got curious and curiouser. I came across a study about saints and paranoids that left me intrigued.

 

Two dissimilar groups of people, paranoid patients under psychiatric care and holy people or saints, wound up in the same category on a reputable personality inventory. Researchers coined a word, Pronoia, for the second category. What the two groups seemed to have in common was a belief in an orderly Universe. But instead of being driven by a paranoid mental life full of fear and anxiety about an unsafe world, those in the Pronoia group seemed to be united by a belief that all is just as it should be.

About that time, I came across words attributed to Albert Einstein: There are only two ways to live your life. One is though nothing is a miracle and the other is as though everything is a miracle. My gut told me that this kind of hopefulness would be a game changer. Instead of believing the universe is dangerous, why not flip the script and watch for hopeful signs and practices?

I set up a little experiment for myself. I began by recording “everyday miracles” in a little journal by my bed. At first I wrote about coincidences like running into a friend just as I thought about her or finding a missing locket. It quickly grew to include birds and squirrels. Then babies. More and more the list took the form of what would later be called a Gratitude Journal. One day a glimpse of a sunrise over the faraway mountains absorbed my attention completely, bringing me the relief of tears. A Mystic was born. A Pronoid Mystic.

In recent years larger forces for healing have shaped my bedtime list, guiding me through the deep waters of life. Year after year the list has grown well beyond my limited early understanding.

I think of it as Deep Gratitude. A celebration of appreciation and a recognition of miracles little and big. May these be the seasonings of your Thanksgiving. 

Pink Fog of Nostalgia

in Confusion to Clarity, Identity, Noticing, Remembering, Summer

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Welcome, Summer!

The mantra began in my brain last week. Or perhaps it was an obsessive loop. Please come, Summer! It began to morph into a prayer.

Context: Summer Solstice 2025. Once again cool, rainy weather had outstayed its welcome, at least in my mind. While our daily temperature in Oregon held steady in the 50’s and 60’s, a heat dome blanketed most of the rest of the continent.

I had thought about the national heat wave as a concept and then turned it into a guided fantasy so my toes would stay warm. I truly did not know how serious this was at the time, and I honestly do care, but a part of me was jealous. Just a teensy little whiny part. 

While I impatiently waited for sunshine to warm the air, I also found my mind replaying the soft sultry summer nights of a “little Dixie” youth. Running barefoot on a perfect lawn. Drinking iced tea all day long while sunbathing by a pool or lake. Any pool or lake. Wearing scanty summer clothes (sans sweatshirts) well into the night. Diving silently into warm, inviting water for a midnight float.

Then other images arose. Stinging Black flies. Waking up at 3 am, shoulders on fire from all the lake time with only iodine and baby oil for protection. Hearing tornado sirens in the middle of the night and crouching in the southwest corner of the basement, holding my breath while listening to the radio for an all-clear. Sweat trickling down my back when exercising any time after 6 am. Chiggers.

Chiggers! I forgot the chiggers! In North America they’re most prevalent in the hot and humid southeast and Midwest. These tiny invisible mites who form a hole in the skin and chew up tiny parts of your inner skin, causing irritation and swelling. The red, pimple-like bumps itch like nothing else and last about a week, at least twice the length of a mosquito bite and far itchier.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I probably never actually ran barefoot over the grass even once because of those chiggers. And that I have long blessed my good fortune in escaping them by moving to my forever home across the country.

I’ve been appreciating the nostalgic moments of life review as ramblings drift in and out of contemplative moments.  It’s then that I realize that most everything I think I remember may or may not be absolutely true. Reality. It has a way of dispelling the fog of romanticized recall, somewhat like the DDT “fogger” I think I remember chasing in those sun-warmed safer and simpler years.

I make a note to myself about the pink fog machine of nostalgia. And for just a minute I pause to fill with appreciation for the home I have right now, wet or chilly or domed with heat. Just as it is.

Today. Gratitude. Home Base.

May you live this summer from that solid footing.

SgB.

Blessing Your Heart

in Confusion to Clarity, Getting Unstuck, Radical Kindness, Surrendering

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Hello, Friend! 

“Bless Their Hearts” was a phrase I often heard from my elders as I was growing up in the Bible Belt. The expression was often employed to describe benighted folks like the heathens who we sent missionaries to convert. Or perhaps Catholics, who simply didn’t know better.

I moved far away, but the phrase migrated with me. As a know-it-all twenty something I peppered it into my conversations, usually in a slightly superior tone. This made it easier to offer my scathing  judgements and still appear to be a nice person. For a while this meant anyone who was not in the hip counter-culture created and populated by my generation got their hearts blessed. Gradually humbled by life and my own imperfections, I stopped blessing their hearts too.

Sometime during the last three election cycles I’ve noticed my old sarcasm coming to the rescue. A sense of superiority can easily be camouflaged itself as humor, I learned. I’ve blessed the hearts of great swaths of politicians who seem clueless. I called it a coping strategy. Today I’m a bit embarrassed to admit to any of it. Let’s just say it didn’t reflect my higher self.

It also doesn’t serve the world when I stay for long in a shell of self-protection and sarcasm.

There’s something to be said for that in normal times. Which these are not. What most of my friends and clients most need now is a way to soothe their own nervous systems. This is something I frequently forget to do for myself, despite my best intentions.

Over the decades (with the help of therapy) I’ve come to realize how little self-soothing was on the agenda for me when I was a baby. No blankie. No thumb-sucking. No favorite binkie or plush toy for me. This was a point of pride for my parents.

Then, last summer, along came grandbaby Juniper, the little spirit who captured my heart. Almost since birth Juniper has been a prize-winning self-soother. When things have been too stimulating or she’s tired, she naturally pats herself softly on her cheek or chest. She often dozes off immediately. As she has grown into herself during her first year, her love pats have become more intentional.

It looks like she’s blessing her own heart.

With their simplicity and trust, babies have a way of busting ironic adults like me. A while ago I decided Juniper had something there and maybe it wasn’t too late for me. I began to watch her exact movements, imitating them at first in play. One night of insomnia I tried patting my heart, Juniper style. And, presto! I discovered a whole new level of self-blessing.

Here’s her technique, in case you could use a little more rest or self-love in this anxious time. Place your right palm over your heart. Feel it beating. Then place left palm over the right hand, patting the hand (and the heart beneath it). Repeat. Add slow, mindful breathing.

When was the last time you truly blessed someone’s heart with no trace of irony?

When was the last time you blessed your own heart, knowing you deserve it?

You can do it now. 

I’m pretty sure Juniper would say you’re welcome.

Let this Spring be a time of Self Blessing.

 

The bud stands for all things, 

even for those 

that don’t flower,

for everything flowers 

from within, 

of self-blessing, 

though sometimes 

it is necessary 

to reteach a thing 

about its loveliness,

 to put a hand 

on the brow of the flower

and retell it 

in words and touch

 it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, 

of self-blessing.

(from St Francis and the Sow

 by Galway Kinnell)

 

photos by

Liz-e and Ben

Swans, Time, and Change

in Confusion to Clarity, Family Stress, Getting Unstuck, Noticing, Winter

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Late February, 2025

Hello, Friend! 

I recently spent the afternoon with more than a thousand tundra swans. They migrate from Alaska to a wildlife sanctuary here in Oregon every year to warm up. This has been true for millennia. Time has not significantly changed this rite. It has always been simply the natural order of things.

There’s something deeply soothing about watching nature’s immutable patterns, given all the random changes and confusions in our human world. And then there are the gorgeous swans themselves, in all their storied grace. 

The eternal kind of beauty offered by the natural world is a balm. Changes in the world of humans can break your heart. But Nature’s beauty still has the power to knock you out. And wake you up.

My desire to protect the natural order is strengthened when I focus on this. I feel a deep responsibility to stand for those that can’t protect themselves, like the swans. When I remember thi I’m not willing to give myself over to the turmoil of the day. Instead I’m deeply motivated to put down some speed bumps to slow down a bit of the craziness. 

On my way home from the refuge, I decide to do something to break through the shocked reaction that has kept me frozen this past month. As a life coach, I know to focus on achievable goals and take a steady approach. So I make an action plan to do something every day. I decide twenty minutes is enough time to write a post card or make three phone calls. 

Who do I call? To begin with, my representatives in the Capitol. Who to write? I sign up again with Vote Forward to send letters to reluctant voters. And what about donations? I turn to my list of environmental and humanitarian organizations. I’m still working on answers, and they seem to come one at a time.

 The last question, Where and when will I spend my money? is answered simply on Friday Feb. 28th. I can support an Economic Blackout for the day by buying nothing online or in person. If enough of us participate it can send a message to corporations and government that the needs of everyday working people are important. More about that here.

What about you? What answers are arising for you? Sometimes the smallest actions have big consequences, especially when taken together. As for me, every time I send a letter or make a call I’ll be thinking of those swans. And there’s comfort in knowing I’m doing my own small part to protect nature’s timeless and immutable way of reminding us what really matters.

Keeping the faith,

Becoming

Sudden

an explosion of swans,

cracks the sky, each day

a thousand strong and louder

a white regatta of pillows

drifting down, honking 

and whistling their location.

A lamentation of swans

crying from grief and exhaustion 

landing for the day

an arabesque of swans in glissando,

sweeping the surface and settling 

to feed at dusk. 

Heads down. Tails up 

And then shifting again

Into a sail of swans 

Slipping smoothly into shadows 

and silhouettes, seeking other 

swan kin before tucking heads. 

Changing for the long dark night

into at tranquility of swans.

—SgB 2025

 

The Grace of Everyday Epiphanies

in Confusion to Clarity, Getting Unstuck, Noticing, Remembering, Winter

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On January 6 many years ago, I stumbled on a holiday that looked like it had it all: Epiphany. Only one word at the bottom of a plastic billboard outside a church. Not a part of the early training in my Southern Baptist youth, it had all the exotic mystery of whatever Catholics did. 

As I grew into the English major I was in college, I discovered the meaning of the word epiphany, which came from the Greek and meant “to reveal.” In the thirteenth century this referred to the revealing of Jesus’ presence in the world.

But my time in history and culture is more mid-century modern. I had felt Jesus “knockin on my heart” at summer camp, sure. But in my teen angst (and associated depression), I rejected childish beliefs. But I had also lost the magic of insight that had seemed to burst out of nowhere. In those moments, it felt to me like some ancient inner sage pierced through the fog and revealed the vast possibilities on the other side of the ordinary world.

On the day that the word epiphany beckoned from the billboard, I was a mother of two young children. I taught literature in public schools. I had written papers on epiphanies in literature and I brought that interest to my teaching.

The idea of declaring time to consciously invite epiphanies into my life tickled me, inside out. I figured that an early bedtime was just what my children, ages three and six, needed for their health, but I needed that time for me, too. I spent a couple of quiet hours on that evening with candles lit, reading wisdom texts, meditating, and imagining a future.

Over the years I came to think of this day as my own personal holiday. I treasure these early memories. I’ve revisited them in my blog Reclaiming Epiphany.

This year will be the 40th year I celebrate epiphany, which I now understand has always had its own following besides me. As a church holy day, Epiphany (with a capital E) is also known as Three Kings Day. In Latin America the day is commemorating the Three Wise Men’s arrival at the humble stable. It’s also the day that Hispanic children to awaken to find the gifts the Three Kings have left them. 

Irish women seized on the January 6th date and renamed it Women’s Christmas, a time when all the fuss is over and the women and mothers who (mostly) put on the event can finally rest and have their own celebration. That’s my kind of epiphany right there: Celebrating that the festive season has passed and things are finally settling down enough to focus on our own lives or share in the sisterhood of other women.

Some female Christian leaders have carried the message and the invitation for introspection to women in their community. If this catches your soul’s fancy, here’s a link to one such program:https://sanctuaryofwomen.com/WomensChristmasRetreat2025.pdf

What might you do this year to celebrate Women’s Christmas or Epiphany? With the holiday hoopla and travel mostly behind you, what can you do to claim some time for your heart to rest? How can you slow down enough to hear an inner voice suggest how you might care for your spiritual Self?

For many of us, the power of rest itself is the epiphany. If that’s true for you, why not kindly grant it to your tired self?  You don’t need a grand plan. You might need to at least find time to declare a long-needed beauty sleep so that you can begin to catch up and go forth with a bit of vigor. Or maybe vigor itself if a good place to start and a walk right now is the ticket. Nature, of course, is almost always the ticket.

Go a bit further. If you were your own kindest fairy godmother, what would you grant yourself? Why not give yourself a bit of that this year, even if it’s a tiny part of your true wish? Consider it a down payment from the part of you who willingly gives to loved ones more than you think you can.

I now have more time and means to make good on my promise to my younger self. As my favorite poet William Stafford said, Armageddon is possible. But so is love. And salvation. And so this year I wake up and marvel at all the bonuses of this life.

One of those is you. May your inner fairy godmother grant you your fondest wish in the form of an Aha! Moment or two in nature or on the city street. Or perhaps a meaningful connection with a spiritual guide or teacher from your tradition or training. Or as a pop-up epiphany in meditation or prayer. Even an extra hour of sleep can be holy. Just as holy as is the ability to truly witness any of life’s bonus surprises.

From the darkness of Winter, I wish you the grace of many epiphanies in your ordinary life.

SgB

Curiosity and Wisdom

in Confusion to Clarity, Fall, Noticing, Surrendering

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Happy Autumn!

There’s an acorn woodpecker just on the other side of the window, the red streak at the back of its head highlighting the hard work of getting real nutrition from the world around it.

Its motive and mine are not so different, I think. It’s more and more difficult to find truth when being fed a refined diet of alarmist headlines. I often balance on the hairline tightrope between fear and love. Then I remember what really matters. This perspective brings some comfort.

Unless your superpower is tunnel vision, you’re also exposed to a toxic drip of fear, lies and hatred, which is way more than a normal human brain can process. Or at least this human brain. I often forget even the most basic wisdom that my long life has offered. I sometimes even begin to doubt a foundational faith that has carried me before through dark times.

During the last few months, my brain, trying to be a helper, put the words of Julian of Norwich on autoplay: All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well. What a very wise brain! It turns out these words of wisdom came as a mystic visitation to the 13thcentury anchorite nun in England. Since she lived during times that were a bit chaotic, given the plague, starvation, inquisitions, and the hunting and burning of women, I thought her words might have a little relevance in our current world. After all, her wisdom was sought and followed by religious and secular leaders of the time, and they were up against some hard stuff.

Long ago, inspired by the Carlos Castaneda books, I made a commitment to a Path of Heart. I was 29 when I posted the declaration on my office door: For me there is only the traveling on paths that have heart, on any path that may have heart, and the only worthwhile challenge is to traverse its full length—and there I travel looking, looking breathlessly.

During the last 45 years these words have found sturdy legs in all my various roles as a teacher, author, mother, counselor, and coach. I have tested this path, and it has not let me down. Although I have amended it after practicing the breathless thing again and again. If I could now I would edit that sign. Today, it would end, and there I travel, breath by breath, led by curiosity and wonder.

Going back to the basics gives me comfort. It reminds me to learn from all sources of deep wisdom. To trust grace to carry me above the confusion and to guide me to land on the next best action.

And so, with a whole lot less anxiety, I will sit down today to write one more batch of post cards reminding people to vote their conscience in the upcoming election. I will drop them in a mailbox soon, sprinkled with a prayer for the good of all beings.

Including you.

SGB

curiosity is my girlfriend

demanding but patient

she was once easily satisfied 

by whimsy

while I attended

to grown-up matters

like family and job 

and living a serious life

we’d paint my pinky nail with glitter 

to mark our secret engagement

to remind me that 

we need each other

in the grown-up world 

and to remember 

that laughter 

is always a choice 

after dark weeks of rain

we’d go on short drives

to discover

there really was an opening 

of blue just over the hill 

nowadays she demands 

a good wander 

raises an eyebrow at any excuse

she speaks now in the language 

of rustling trees

and crickets at sunset  

and nudges me with each step 

to pause 

to listen 

in wonder 

to ask the next question 

and love the next 

as yet unfinished 

answer.

—SgB 2024

photos by

George Beekman and Ben Beekman

Fuse for Your Pocket: Green on Green

in Confusion to Clarity, Power of Connection, Surrendering, Wordlessness

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Green on Green

Here in Oregon the color is always on-brand, just like rain, her more-famous sister brand. When spring first rolls around, the infinitude of colors of green flood the landscape. No one has yet invented Spring foliage tours, but the potential is there.

Oregon Leaf Peeping tours. come drink in the colors during our spring greening event, at its best for only a couple or three weeks. (Just remember: you heard the idea here.) 

Ever since the increased loss of ancient forest lands to wildfire in the last five years, I try to stay focused on gratitude for what’s left. Spring always makes this less of a struggle, with its constant reminders of renewal. 

Earlier this month I went on a retreat in HG Andrews Experimental Forest. It’s in the Cascade mountains a couple hours from my home. It’s also the very first US Forest Service outpost devoted to forest research, centered in an ancient forest stand. It was established around the time of my birth, a more innocent and less fiery time. 

I had been there exactly a year ago.  Since then 70% of the surrounding forest acreage had burned. In addition, windfall from last winter’s ice storm damage surrounding us served as a constant reminder of nature’s growing vulnerability. Seeing all of this damage hit me hard.

How do I open up enough space for hope along with this sorrow? This was my heart’s cry as I walked the trail. After a good cry, I just might’ve needed to distracted myself a bit because before I knew it I was trying to name all the colors of green in a Crayola box. (The kind with 120 colors and a sharpener embedded in the box.)

I sat on a stump on a virgin forest riverbank to contemplate this, ancient trees all around. The longer I perched there the more I could see. I began to imagine breathing it all in. I gazed at a cluster of moss for a while, slowly letting in what was right in front of me. I counted at least five different species of moss, layered in deepening shades of my new favorite color.

Fir, hemlock, and cedar created a canopy which sheltered their moss friends. A few trillium flowers trumpeted the arrival of spring and tiny calypso orchids poked shyly out of the earth. It was like a Disney movie. 

I drank it all in and closed my eyes. When I opened them again the words forest magic drifted through my mind. In its spell, I forgot to name anything at all, no matter what color. I was flooded by a deep sense of the ineffable beauty and comfort of all creation. I remembered a few words by poet Dylan Thomas. “The force that through the green fuse lights the world.” There was a sweet moment of being completely taken over by that powerful source of renewal. Then a flood of profound peace. Followed by a desire to protect the fragile land. 

There’s comfort in knowing that I’m not alone. And I still carry the green fuse in the pocket of my mind. Maybe you’d like to put it in your pocket too, as you revel in the new life that spring offers.

Mourning Dove 

soft cry 

first sound 

new day

rising voice 

of hope 

or a question. 

Are you there?

the answer 

a beat away

 but steady 

now, now, now.

a slow dissolve and 

a surrender to 

a landing and 

a resolution and 

a repetition or 

a preparation 

for the next call.

Are you there?

Where? Where, where, where?

Same chord with

the same

 soft insistence on

a mournful tone of 

longing and 

a forever call with

the same always response.

just this, this, this, and this

here, here, here. and here.

Home, home, and home

—SgB 2023

photo by

George Beekman

The Short Story of My Shadow and Me

in Confusion to Clarity, Getting Unstuck

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Once I tried to give away my shadow.
It wasn’t easy. More like downright terrifying.
I was launching my new book,
Putting Your Best Foot Forward:
a PR Guide to Life™ Suddenly I saw that my foot wasn’t the problem. 
It was my shadow. 
Such a mouth it had. Always with a snappy comebacks
Always with the opinions, 
Always with the surprises. 

It was time to move it along,
and so I started low.to the earth
with Groundhog, squatting  at his burrow door.
(He was known to be cranky this time of year so I whispered).
You can use my shadow as a backup, 
I gently suggested. 
You might be more predictable,
He curled his lip and bared his incisors
I’ve got enough shadow
worries on my own without yours,
he snarled, And besides, It won’t fit!

 

Plan A (The Giveaway) was out. 
Plan B (Direct Persuasion) was in.
Moon Shadows are  kinder than Day Shadows, and so we met under a full moon.
Thank you so much for your service,.
Perhaps retirement might suit you, I suggested., 
I kept the argument civil, logical,
Sensitive to its needs. 
But the nicer I was the nastier the response.
until I noticed my collar getting very hot, 
and I heard myself saying
Okay then, I’m done trying to figure this out.
Let me make it clear: I don’t need you anymore.

And what if I refuse? It asked, 
After that there were no other words, 
only a dark pressure in my midnight mind,
a burrowing into my chest,
a sense of something crouching
Somewhere deep and out of reach.

And so I guess it’s the two of us now,
and I know that I will never see 
the dance we do together, my shadow and me.

Transfusion of the Heart

in Body or Aging, Confusion to Clarity, Getting Unstuck, Remembering, Winter

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Transfusion of the Heart

I’m certainly no stranger to life’s unpredictable heartbreak and loss. Lately, like most of my peers in the Youngish Elder category, I notice my brain and body are a little more fatigued from the surprises of each year as it passes. It seems as if the pace has been increasing  lately, and there’s good evidence for this claim. But nobody wants to be re-traumatized by visiting that list of surprises.

While there’s certainly increased cultural and environmental grief, the predictable vicissitudes of aging can’t be ignored. With all my replaced and updated parts, right now my biggest problem is a brain that seems way too eager to drop names (or nouns in general) if it deems them unnecessary. A couple of my very dearest friends, slammed with sobering diagnoses, haven’t been so lucky. I’ve taken just about everything having to do with my health and life force for granted.

In my life there are many blessings I try not to ignore. In my role as life coach for a small list of clients I nearly always find renewed energy and inspiration. My family is healthy and mostly thriving. There have been no major wildfires near us for the last couple of years. For these things and more I am truly grateful.

When I haven’t been so lucky in big ways and small, resilience has found me and showed me the way. It hasn’t let me down. But this year it’s a gradual anemia of heart that seems to want my attention, especially as I peek into the next year and realize the seriousness of the challenges we face as a people. Just imagining possible futures is enough to fatigue a person who’s been doing a pretty good job of treading water. 

I know in my depths that resilience alone won’t do the trick long-term. I think I need a reboot, while I’m still walking in these boots. I recently felt inspired by these lines from Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem How to Disappear:

Walk around feeling like a leaf.

Know you could tumble any second.

Then decide what to do with your time.

Such is life in my seventies. A concoction of gratitude and fatigue. A mixture of hope and acceptance, tempered by the lessons of reality. Learning to pause to let life show me the way.

I can’t see the future clearly, but I’m encouraged by a humbled understanding of the value of the basic components of life.

As gifted songwriter Laura Nyro advised, “Nothing cures like time and love.” These are the healing cures for almost anything. But it’s especially true for Anemia of the Heart.

Time. Love. This feels just about right. May the next year bring you ample quantities of these two essential ingredients. And may this transfusion renew your heart and increase your peace as you move forth.

Susan Grace

The Promise of a New Year 

Winter moon smudges

Halo of hope a smeared rainbow

in dark charcoal sky

Erasing the world 

Of my daily re-creation, 

leaving only a hint 

of life before now.

and a vague moon print 

of future revelation

— SgB 2024

photo by George Beekman

Twisting, Bending, and Holiday Nirvana

in Body or Aging, Confusion to Clarity, Surrendering, Winter

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A couple of weeks ago, only a few days I after I wrote a blog about my firm resolution to pay attention to my body’s subtle cues, I had a little stumble, a little fall, resulting in some sore ribs. Nothing I couldn’t ignore.

A couple of days later, congratulating myself on my quick recovery, I went back to my regular yoga class. As I twisted and then stretched into a forward bend, I felt a slight click, something I had always called an adjustment, For a moment I thought I that once again yoga had offered its magical relief. As I began to move into Tadasana, a muscle spasm took me to the floor. What had felt delicious the day before prevented me from getting off my mat, and I only got into a wheel chair with the help of friends. 

For the week that followed, which included a long holiday, a muscle spasm got my attention nearly full-time, day and night, So much for subtle listening. I’m not saying that there weren’t certain benefits to being served a turkey dinner by my family, but to tell the truth it wasn’t worth it.

Since then, a couple of gifted bodywork detectives helped me to trace the injury to hyper flexibility, something I had thought was a good thing. What a revelation! I’m told by my best allies that without enough strength, flexibility can be dangerous. Apparently my muscles came to the rescue when they seized, protecting those fragile ribs and the essential organs beneath them. What a clever body! But hardly subtle; apparently this is what it took to get my attention.

I had plenty of time to lie around and reflect on the situation, a yummy opportunity for a metaphor junkie. And what I noticed is that my usual habit to tend, to befriend, to find harmony with win/win solutions, has basically resulted in the habit of back-bending a bit too far. Occasionally all this stretching and allowing has cost me money. But more often the cost is hidden. When I abandon my own strong knowing, it may please others, but it takes a good while to begin to trust myself again.

As luck would have it, this is also the holiday season. The exact time that the Back Bender tends to take over, for all the seasonal reasons, both joyous and overwrought.

As I hauled my yoga mat up the stairs to class today, the pain was gone. I know the strength will return in its own time.

Gradually my body will thank me for my patience. Or, better yet, it won’t have the need to yell at me to get my attention. Now that sounds like a perfect gift for the two of us, my body and me.

May you find joy in standing firm this season, even as you embrace the flexibility of an open mind. May you listen to your body’s wise guidance, even as you celebrate all the life it gives.