I missed you this month! I have to admit that two weeks ago, when I was scheduled to write to you, my deadline slid by unnoticed. My schedule is full this spring with teaching dance (click here if you want to read more about that), and I simply lost track of time.
I’m glad to be back!
Last time I wrote to you about winter wonder.
Well, it hit me again – this time from the warmth of my home during the big snow we had in Boulder this week. I marveled at how these tiny flakes of snow, falling slowly and simply, one by one, barely noticeable in the air, accumulated into piles and piles….and piles of snow.
Accumulation happens inside our bodies, too. You probably already know this when you think about cholesterol, or fat, or emotions. We know things build up inside.
Our practices – of gratitude, presence, wonder, observation, time in nature, breathing – also accumulate in our system.
They feed the parts of us that are programmed for connection, for rest, for being and belonging.
I have to admit that I haven’t been outside this month as much as I’d like. It’s cold. I’m busy. I’ve been prioritizing other things.
However, because I’ve cultivated some practices over time, I notice now how just a few breaths of fresh air, or a pause and glance at those naked trees, taken in with full presence, can bring me an inner re-set.
I wrote to you about accumulation last July, too, when my cottonwood tree seeds were falling on my deck turning into piles of pods. I likened it to the power of the messages accumulating in the postcard collection.
Your invitation these next two weeks is to notice what positive practices have accumulated in your system. What have you come to know and integrate so well that you hardly remember there was a time when you didn’t do/have/feel that thing?
This week celebrate your self-care successes, no matter how small, and share about them with one other person. If that person is me (or is also me), I’d love it! Send me an email.
It’s been a while since I shared a postcard. I spent some time with them this month - every time I sit down to read them, emotion swells. Here’s a couple that got me this morning, written by CU students in workshops over the past couple years:
"I feel like we don't talk anymore - I'm not sure if we ever did. Only in those still moments I'd be at the sea's shore and imagine I was (a part?) or realized how small I was at the crashing waves and grey water. We don't talk because I can't listen - I'm used to my ears picking up more demanding sounds, and I think part of that is in not allowing myself that time. I wonder how I do that when everything becomes black white grey - fast paced again --? ...did you send a raven?"
"Dear Mama Earth,
I want to take some time to thank you for everything you do. The gifts you give are wonderful and beyond words. This world that you have created is something to be respected and cared for just in the way a mother cares for her child. Thank you for these gifts, in return I will do what I can to share what I know with others, to help them see and come to respect this beautiful, this world we share."