When you say those ugly things you didn't want to say

Take it to the water

This morning, the lake was as clear as glass. The surface un-muddled by wave, wind or water bug.
Stones, green, gray and almost blue, down in the depths leapt up to meet me.

I went with a yearning, asking it to help me investigate my impatience. My snapped words and tight chest and dropped this and hurried that.
You know: the way things surface when you’re on the road, sleeping on the ground, playing all day and not knowing until too late how quite exhausted you are. You know how your stuff shows up?

That's what's happening.
That tumbling of words and feelings and words, until the end and the, “Why did I say that? Maybe I can pretend I didn’t,” moment.

But there comes a point of no more pretending. 

So here I am at the water, learning lessons in seeing more clearly, investigating what it might be like to detect the first ripple that creates the next and the next until all is a blur.
Here is what I am finding:
It begins with a slight sense of weight, or a tiny gnawing or tightness, or feeling extra tender or a little raw (I’m tired, hungry, dehydrated, feeling quiet, inward, reflective, or maybe feeling a barely perceptible pain or ache.)
It’s easy to push right past it, deny it and ignore it, speeding up when I need to slow down.
The movement creates noise, ripples, and waterfalls, even. Rushing energy that can feel like “getting it done,” “taking care of it,” or “I’ll just do it myself”.
In less than a moment, I can go from tired to impatient to controlling to frustration to resentment to blaming.

Just as soon as the rush starts, it’s over.

And at least someone is hurt.
(Now, I do believe rushing has its place, its purpose, its own beauty and power. The waterfalls are teaching me that.
There are times when forward is the only way and blinders are needed and I need to push and leap and fall without looking, in order to get to the next thing.
But this is not one of those times.)

So today, I’m practicing the opposite of my urge to rush, fix, grab, push, huff and finish.
I’m slowing down exactly when I want to speed up.
I’m aiming to intercept the moment before the moment.
I’m staring into the water with eyes soft and wide, waiting for the first detection of movement:
Is that depletion I sense? Is that hunger I feel? Is that confusion surfacing?
And, without trying to change it, slowing down.
Creating a tiny magical space where I can breathe.
Adoring it. Letting it feel messy and sad and painful and tired. Or whatever hint of those feelings it might be.
I’m taking sacred pause before the words, before the reaction, before the impatience.
And you know what? Even though this was motivated by love of someone else, and not wanting to be carelessly hurtful, it feels like the most loving thing for me.
There is the unexpected gift of relief, release and joy.

So I'm trying this: I’m attempting to free myself from the internal gripping, the trap I was setting for myself over and over again.
I’m circling above the water of my feelings, watching like a hawk for the first ripple of movement. And taking the pause, making the space--that slow motion that actually creates more time where I thought there was none.
Timelessness that feels like love.
And more of that love for everyone.
It’s not easy and perfection is nowhere in sight. It’s awkward and ever-new and always challenging.

But  for today, I'm putting my trust into the adoring, the breathing, the magic-making.

And sending you blessings and the sweetness of sacred pause.

Sweet breaths to you,
xo Liv
P.S. I am loving up the group of women who’ve joined me for {Reclaiming Sensitive}. Thank you if you’re in it with me. I love that we’re expanding and reclaiming together. Couldn't join us this time? Stay tuned for other oppotunities soon. xoxo