Choosing Courage: Lessons from the Lone Star State

Journeying toward courage. 

   

***

The choice between fear or courage arrives at sunset in Marathon, Texas. I stand barefoot on the tile floor and look at the map unfolded across the hotel’s desk. I follow her turquoise bejeweled finger as she traces the next part of our journey – the hundreds of miles stretching to the border.

Seeing the miles, the cities, the sprawling distance, I feel the sudden weight of my decision to go to this conference on human trafficking in McAllen, Texas.

She senses my hesitation. My childhood friend knows that my tendency is to second-guess and fall into self-doubt.

“You decide,” she tells me. She’s granting me the space to decide to go or stay.

I am desperate for her fearlessness, her courageous openness and confidence in self to handle whatever arises along the way. I crave freedom from this fear threatening to sabotage my bold decision to travel to the border for a conference.

I think back to the email that ignited the spark to travel to Texas. I receive the email about the conference on human trafficking on the border from my former professor.

“This may be of interest to you,” he writes.  He’s my undergraduate research mentor who supported my academic pursuits in researching human trafficking in Kentucky. The whole process of writing the paper – interviewing advocates & researchers, reading articles and gathering notes, writing the paper and presenting the research at a national conference - is one of the happiest experiences of my life. 

I am aligned to purpose when I write to illuminate human rights issues. There’s a part of me that feels ecstatically alive when I research – I listen with my entire being to people’s stories, showing up as a witness, gathering information, seeking connections, and I carry these stories with me.

The conference is an opportunity to hear stories from the border from advocates, academics and survivors. The border is a world I do not know, and I am pulled to seeing and experiencing this world of blending cultures.

I believe this is a sign from the Universe. The timing is ideal. My best friend from childhood and I are already musing on an Austin and Marfa adventure. The conference serendipitously fits into our plans. We’ll just swing south after rocking out in Austin, romping through Marfa and roaming through Big Bend.

Now on the eve before we embark deep south into the Lone Star state and staring at the map, I realize this casual driving swing is a ten-plus-hour drive, and looming through the journey will be anxiety about the conference itself. Disconnected from my passionate initial response, I teeter toward the familiar hold of fear. The fear calculates the risk of traveling all those miles in a single day. The fear voices the concerns about feeling out-of-place at the conference. There is the tempting alternative to stay here and spend the next few days adventuring through West Texas.

The fear is deeper than the practical concerns of traveling safely or the  nervous butterflies about showing up solo to a conference – this is the fear of change. Instinctively, I know this journey will change me, and I fear how the experiences will shape me. My perspective will be shifted by the speakers at the conference, by the world I will see through the car windows (glimpses of Mexico), through the air I will breathe, heavy with the stories from the border.

As the sun sets, as the tiny Texas town turns inward, I make the decision to go, and I am ecstatic and petrified. My love affair with courage begins here. 

The traveled map to McAllen is etched into the inner terrain of my heart, and I revisit those last few days in Texas often in gently held memories. I slip back into the auditorium at the conference and feel the spark of aliveness awakening me to the world beyond the border. I remember deeply listening, a full focus that engaged my whole self. This unwavering attentiveness is a sign that I am where I need to be, I am immersed in the life flow, and this electric concentration happens when I am effortlessly doing what I love.

The feeling is the memento. I cling to this feeling when life currents get rough, when I feel distant from myself, and when an unknown sadness settles and quietly rivers through the motions of my daily life.

The lingering feeling of Texas in my being propels me to return. I am running away, but I am running back to source. I do not recognize the person I am anymore – a whirling dervish of reactions, susceptible to blinding anger and a dulling sadness. I book a solo ticket because I ache for an adventure, a challenge, a remembering of the strength of my nature.

Then, the fear arrives a few weeks before my trip. The fear wakes me in the middle of the night. I am wild with concerns. I consider cancelling the trip.

I slow the breath. There’s a recalling of another memory, of when fear emerged in charged panic. I land back in Marathon. I see the map spilled out across the desk, and feel the same lurch of the heart, the quickening of the breath. Fear. A fear I am beginning to understand: the fear signaling a change. The fear of the unknown. Beneath the fear, is the terrifying thrill of standing on the edge of a new adventure. The thrill of an adventure about to begin, an end launching into a beginning, and the deepening of an innate courage to go.

And go I do.

Claiming My Sensitivity

A poetic photographer gifts me a memory from a sweet summer.

***

I wake to the stories of yesterday. I feel the precious weight of the newborn placed so trustingly in my arms. I taste the cinnamon cereal shared as a snack with a spirited six-year-old while filling in the pages of a mermaid coloring-book. I hear the rage, hopelessness and fear in the young woman’s voice as she says, “I don’t want to hear another ‘I told you so.’”

I think of these women at the shelter, I think of their starry-eyed little ones. Our lives momentarily overlap. I only catch a small fragment, a quick snapshot of their story, now fading into an impression, into a feeling. The feeling blooming is love flowing into a fierce, sacred whisper to the Universe wishing them wellbeing, safety, and radiant rising.

I wake to their narratives and to a curiously peaceful heart. I am learning, then.

This is a dose of daily soul work: to be an open heart in this raw world, to be an alert listener to the stories of my fellow travelers and still be centered in my being. This is a challenge. I tend to absorb others’ heartbreak as my own.

I soak in emotional energies like a sponge: a phone call, a quick glimpse of the headlines, a poignant film, a brief exchange echoes in my being and whips waves of emotion that can either uplift or sink my spirits for days, or even weeks.

This sensitivity to places, people and energies is a natural part of my wiring, and I’m just now learning to work with and not against my sensitivity. I am peeling back the voices of misunderstanding teachers, judgmental family members and fifth grade bullies to hear and honor the soft voice of my sensitivity.

My sensitivity is a wild creature whom I use to fear. Sensitivity ignites me to  feel intensely, makes me dizzy in crowds, causes me to be overly stimulated in loud and busy environments. 

I’m now learning to nurture this artistic beast through routine that satisfies its craving for solitude, nature, and art. I restore through daily meditation, walks in nature (I relish a stroll in the cold; I feel so utterly alive), time spent freely journaling and reading works that sing straight to my center. I practice compassion toward self (because it’s a daily decision to show kindness) when I’m stressed, vulnerable, fearful, and when I’m content and joyful. By softening toward myself, I’m softening toward others, and I’m softening to the world without taking on the world.

The practice is the work shift at the shelter, a world pulsing with stories, heartbreaks, hopes, sorrows and dreams.  I feel for the young woman missing her purse, feel her frustration, her anger, her desire to discharge the blame, and I stay connected to my breath as I help her search, not taking on her feelings, just simply being present for her and myself. Instead of being scrambled with feelings, I am able to be in the moment. I see the incredible strength and poise the six-year-old exudes as she answers her mother in Spanish, then directs her unwavering gaze at me and asks for her mother, “What is it that you need?”

I need to be awake in this moment, to listen wholeheartedly, to be a gentle witness to the stories, and still wake in the morning fully empowered in my sensitive self. This is my soul work as a sensitive being. And I’m softening into the journey. 

Meditating In A Brewery

When you complain, you make yourself a victim. Leave the situation, change the situation, or accept it. All else is madness. – Eckhart Tolle 

***

In the comfort and serenity of a beloved yoga studio nestled in the Kentucky woods, I prepare for meditation. I sit tall, let my eyes gently and feel the presence of the breath. As I grow quiet, the once soft layers of sound, the whisper of the wind, the song of birds, the hum of the heater, become suddenly loud.

“There will always be noise,” the teacher says as if reading my mind, “but you can always come home to the stillness beneath the noise by returning to the breath.”

A week later, I repeat this piece of wisdom to a tribe of yogis settling down to meditate in a popular downtown brewery. Away from the tranquility of the woods, away from the quiet of the yoga studio, right in the center of a Wednesday night in a downtown hot spot, her words take on new significance and a sense of urgency.

Big city yoga is how I like to describe this brewery yoga class to inquiring minds. Mat-to-mat and limited space, a yogi must be conscious of all movements, otherwise a neighbor shall be unintentionally hit while launching into a half-moon pose, or toes shall smack a nose when flying up into locust. Every Wednesday night, the beer garden transforms into a yoga space: a loyal tribe of professionals, local artists, and college students arrive at least thirty minutes early to secure a coveted spot. The bare floor becomes a colorful canvas of brightly patterned yoga mats. Shoes become cubbies for car keys and cell phones. There are a few daring yogis who drink a beer before (or during) class. This is all part of the adventure of brewery yoga…and the noise.

The noise tonight, though, is louder than usual. The stereo is mistakenly left on in the beer garden, so an instrumental version of popular Christmas songs plays through meditation. The music is an additional layer to the hisses booming occasionally from the brewing machinery, and the rise and swell of laughter rippling out from the accompanying room where people gather for an after-work beer.

As I project and continue on the meditation (this is where theater training serves me tremendously: the show/yoga class must go on!), I feel the rise of irritation. I care about these students and want a tad bit more quiet for them. The instant I wish the moment to be different is when I feel myself veering from my connection to center.

Another piece of wisdom from an effervescent yoga teacher emerges and brings peace: “The ego mind is always going to want the moment to be different, and we lose our peace by fighting the reality of what is present. Let go the resistance. Let the moment be exactly as it.”

I surrender. I let the moment be exactly as it is – loud, but a loudness shimmering with the vibrancy of life: people at work, people sharing stories, people flirting, a local business thriving. I am a quiet witness to the world, present within and present in the hustle and bustle. Once I let the moment be as it, I feel a steadiness, a peace, and from there, I can teach.

A few days later, I find myself  thinking of the brewery yoga class and the gift of lessons it brings right in time for the holiday season. Finding a sense of inner peace is always easy when I am on meditating in the serenity of a yoga studio. The real meditation occurs off the mat. The real meditation is finding and staying connected to the peace beneath the noise of our lives and offering our genuine presence to the moment, whatever the moment holds.

During the holiday season, in my household, and with such pure-hearted intention, there is a desire for the holiday to be perfect, for everyone to be happy, and for the gatherings to go smoothly; but the holidays can be stressful and a rollercoaster of emotion. The brewery class prepares me to stay connected to my center as I ride the holiday rush. The brewery noise sharpened my focus and my commitment to be present and be with what is, and enhanced the joy and love I feel for teaching that class. The class is my spiritual reminder to let the moment be exactly as it (glistening with twinkle lights or tense with strained family dynamics), and let people be exactly as they are (joyful or grouchy).

Whatever the holiday holds for you, dear reader, and I hope it holds such joy and ease, remember in times of conflict and stress to return to the peace beneath the chaos by coming home to the breath. To be a presence of peace  in the midst of activity and stillness is a treasured gift for you and the ones you share this holiday season with.

Go gently and sweetly. Namaste, Loves. 

On The Tracks: Finding My Soul Tribe

I breathe this memory into my bones: the beautiful blossom of morning light reaching across train tracks, the touch of air on my skin, the steel beneath my heels, the soul tribe friends guiding me along my path.

Photos by the wildly talented Misty Pittman . Roam and revel at http://mistypittman.com/collection/ . 

***

Walking in heels along tracks is a balancing act. There is the terrifying and thrilling fear of falling, losing all composure and stumbling into gravel and unforgiving rails. Dwelling in the fear of falling makes it only more plausible. The security is in the present: an unwavering commitment to the NOW to guide my steps.

I am comforted by the presence of my friend, my kindergarten soul mate. She takes graceful steps in lace up boots. The black lace of her dress flutters in the breeze. Her serene aura ripples out and embraces.

I find my breath. I find a gaze to guide and mindfully direct my steps. I am safe.

The photographer captures the journey of my kindergarten soul mate and I traveling down the tracks through her poised iPhone. I feel safe in front of the camera. I trust the exquisite artistry of the photographer. She invites me to step in and see pockets of missed beauty in our raw and metal surroundings. In the fresh world of the morning, this industrial playground of breweries, train tracks and abandoned cars is curiously enchanting. We see beauty in the weeds growing beside discarded tires; in the street puddles left over from the night’s rain; in the bleach white bones of cat who perished by the train track.

She is an artist in full focus – angling the camera to catch a change in light, directing with a few, concise cues. For once, my usual self-consciousness is gone. Typically, I feel uncomfortable in the direct gaze of the unwavering lens and these feelings of unease appear in the photo, much to my chagrin.

Today, though, I am freed from the strains of insecurity. I don’t strive to be model perfect. The wilder my hair is the better. Spontaneous dance sessions celebrated. Carefree laughter welcomed. Heart-shaped sunglasses, Jeans, scuffed boots and leather jacket complimented and praised. I let myself be seen because I am in the presence of two people who see me and radically accept me.

Radical self-acceptance is part of my soul work. The work always begins from within. The daily commitment to practice compassion toward self and show up authentically in the world starts with wild permission to feel what I need to feel, process what I need to process, and love myself through all of the lessons.

I am blessed to have people in my life supporting me through the journey. These rare and treasured friends are my soul tribe.  My soul tribe speaks the language of intuition and of the heart. My soul tribe feels deeply, lives passionately and loves fiercely. The two women walking beside me are my heart listeners: I turn to them when I’m in joy and when I’m in pain. They hold space for all of expressions of me, and I hope I hold space for them, too.

Looking at the photos, I instantly feel a sense of belonging. We need each other on this journey. We need a soul tribe, a community, a few friends who applaud us along as we travel down uncertain roads, or bravely tackle train tracks in heels.

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