We celebrated Christmas yesterday. The best present for me was that Dexter was here with us, having another good day. We hadn’t expected that, hadn’t even wished for it because it seemed so impossible. On Christmas Eve, he slept in bed with me almost the whole night, curled up and warm right next to me, something he rarely ever does anymore. In these moments, I remind myself that this time is short, to surrender to it, to sink into the space I have left with him.
In the same way that having Dexter here but at the same time still dying, Christmas is always a mix of happy and sad for me. I love Colorado and my little family here, but I am also homesick, nostalgic for that other home, that other family, remembering so many Christmas’s past spent at the Farm, the laughter, the good company, and the food. I don’t mind telling you, I miss my mommy. Christmas music and twinkly lights are just as likely to make me feel joy as they are sorrow. For example, this song from A Charlie Brown Christmas makes me tear up every time.
A friend and I were talking the other day about issues we both have with perfectionism, feeling unworthy and thinking we need to earn love, permission, rest, self-care. At the end of our conversation, she said “well, how are we going to help each other with this? we are like the blind leading the blind.” I responded “we aren’t blind, we just have our eyes closed.”
I find this oddly hopeful, comforting, that once there’s even a slight shift in awareness, once I understand that this isn’t permanent or fixed and therefore choosing another option is always possible, I can open my eyes, things can and will shift.
Today is the first day of a seven day retreat for me, the final week of a year of retreat, (my guiding word, my intention for 2012). When I told Eric that’s what I was doing, he asked what that meant exactly. I said I’d be meditating, reading and writing, but not much of anything else, and his response was “how’s that different from any other time?”
I was telling that same friend that I mentioned before about this week of retreat, all the contemplating, reverbing, inward looking, unravelling, and reset.revive.restart.-ing I was planning, and she said “I think maybe you need someone to tell you, you are doing too much.” I’ve been telling myself that for months, asking “how are you going to keep this up?” to which I typically have answered, “shhh, I’m working.”
As far back as late 2011, I was trying to figure this out, wrote about it in Turn the F*ckin Faucet On! and Pace Yourself, about how much I wanted, but how I also realized “There’s just not room for all of it, at least not in this space and time continuum. I am greedy, taking on more than I can possibly do, but there is just so much I want.” I went on to say “Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying that I shouldn’t dream so big. Obviously, I believe in that. Dreaming and wishing and opening myself up to new possibilities and different options is propelling me after years of being stuck. What I am saying is that I need to ‘pace myself.’ ” I’m not quite there yet, kind and gentle reader, but I keep trying.
As I write this, I have about 40 pages of reading and prompts, along with two books sitting next to me–the “plan” for this retreat. Some of the prompts I’ve already answered in other ways–what I accomplished this year, what kind of relationship I had with my body. This was the plan, but instead I found myself allowing the day to unfold naturally. Instead of the plan, I: slept in a bit (Sam joined me after he had breakfast), played with Dexter and one of his Little D babies, wrote and drank half a cup of coffee while snuggled in my purple fleece robe, went to a yoga class, worked out with my trainer, took a hot shower, cleaned my shrine, ate a bowl of apple pie oatmeal while I watched an episode of the Good Life Project, took a nap, talked to my brother on the phone, meditated, walked the dogs, played with Sam in the backyard, looked up at the sky, ate a big salad and a cookie.
Maybe this retreat isn’t about having a plan after all, isn’t about doing or accomplishing anything. Maybe it’s about a rest, a reset, finding a workable rhythm, experiencing both the joy and the grief, maybe it’s about not being in such a hurry to get somewhere, but rather relaxing, surrendering and sinking into being here.
Open Space Practice, (AKA: A Thousand Shades of Gray) 
Oh, Jill. This is so perfectly human and wonderful and TRUE. The idea of the pile of Things to Do and yet, being able to open into what the day asks for, what the day seems to open to? This is a terrific reminder.
Thank you, for giving yourself (and all of us) permission to let things unfold.
You’re welcome, and thank you for always being there to listen, truly open your heart and listen. That has been such a gift to me, Stephanie, and I am so grateful for it, for you.
*hugs* I think reading your post opened something for me, and I appreciate that you create the space where being open is available and welcome.
I really resonate with being able to see, if only I’d open my eyes…being able to feel, if only I’d open my heart…being able to hear, if only I’d listen…so much there to ponder. Thanks, as always, Jill.
It was so strange when I said it, Susie–it came out of my mouth and it was as if I was hearing it for the first time. I really think it was the wisdom of my highest, deepest Self speaking. And it’s such a relief, to know that it’s not blindness at all, it’s simply keeping my eyes closed–I resist so much out of fear and discomfort, but am also so ready to stop doing that. I am encouraged by strong, big-hearted women like you, so willing to step into the river with me.
Have you heard that before, from the Hopi Elder’s Prophecy? It says “There is a river flowing now very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart and will suffer greatly. Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.”
That’s a beautiful prophecy, Jill. I hadn’t heard it. For me, the river has not been frightening, and I’ll go in it…or find myself in it…with some sense, always, that I will be just fine. The hard part for me, and what I am struggling with right now, is diving under the surface and exploring. I can float along with the current, but the diving…that I will often just let others do! If you’re with me…maybe we can hold hands and dive deeper together!!
I’m willing to put rocks in my pockets if necessary 🙂
today sounds like it was the ideal treat, full of things that brought you comfort and joy, now you just have to believe it and re-treat yourself each day, so perhaps it isn’t so much about a retreat as it is about re-treat: Treat, treat again, re-treat, ah that feels good……………to re-treat is the ultimate retreat.
Oh, I like that: re-treat! I’m going to remember that tomorrow (and the day after that, and the day after that). If I need reminding how good a treat is, all I have to do is say the word to my dogs and watch their reaction 🙂
Every night I walk at water’s edge to view the sunset. My time here in this living space is temporary, so I enjoy this gift very much so while I have it. Tonight, though, wind is whipping so heavy that there is a small craft advisory, and I walked through a sandstorm to see the sunset. It felt exhilarating. I wasn’t going to walk, because my family was tucked inside, cozy and warm…but with Moon rising over the harbor, and sunset beckoning, I listened. And, with sand caked in my eyes, and my fingers so cold I could barely hold my camera, I got this message loud and clear: You won’t know what it feels like unless you allow yourself the experience (*it* is anything in life). Layers are wonderful, yes, but allowing self to be open to the elements (of anything) enlivens even the spots we might have thought numb (or incapable of feeling).
Then, I came in and read your words. And I want to say thank you. And, I love you for sharing so openly what so many people feel but often don’t say. I feel your essence in the words, and I appreciate that. And it might be that these words don’t adequately convey that gratitude, but I tried, and really *trying* matters in ways we won’t ever know.
Thank you for this, Joy. I love that you walk out to view the sunset each night, I do the same, just on the other end of the day. Have you ever heard the quote from Mary Anne Radmacher – “Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says ‘I’ll try again tomorrow’ “? I love that we keep trying, that we don’t let the possibility of “not getting it right” (whatever “right” is anyway) stop us from trying, from open ourselves up to life. Much love to you.
Thanks so much for this. I, too, am guilty of doing too much but there’s so much that I want to do! I take comfort from knowing that someone else on this retreat is trying to “pace” herself also. I look forward to learning from your journey. Thanks for being so willing to share.
Thanks for reading, for taking the time to comment. Your presence keeps me honest 🙂
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