A gentile return

Exquisite noticing & a hint at what's to come!

Hello, dear one,

When time slips by at an alarming cadence (arguably it feels this way more often than not) days become weeks and weeks become months and simultaneously so much and nothing at all has happened, it feels nearly impossible to jump back into the flow of this writing/sharing/connecting practice.

Spaces like this which carry a certain expected cadence seem to further magnify the passing of time in a way that feels especially unsettling. Similar to how birthdays make me feel. Having a dashboard that tells me exactly when I last showed up brings a whole lot of unintended meaning and judgment. Where do I begin? Has it been too long? What would I say? Is there even anything worth taking up the space for?

My answer: Who knows? Maybe yes, maybe no. Either way, ultimately, who cares?

So here I am returning once again after a longer than expected absence. Slipping gently back into the current of this little river that continues to flow regardless of whether I am actively present or not. Much the same way I’ve slipped into this year (marred by Covid, an ice storm, and other unexpected happenings forcing us to begrudgingly slow down).

And because I still don’t entirely know where to begin I will simply say Happy New Year (in February, hah)! I hope you’ve found space in the last few months for deep nourishment, expansive dreaming, gentile tenderness, and the sweetness of exquisite noticing that becomes available in the present moment.

Many moments of sitting with the tender feeling of how fragile we are, how fragile life is. And isn’t that, at least in part, what makes all of this so special? Would it mean as much if it lasted forever? The impermanence is a gift and a curse. 

Tarot cards that whisper much-needed reminders and encouragement. Laughing at how I used to be so embarrassed about my “woo-woo” tendencies. Now they are the thread that weaves my days together. A candle here. A meditation there. A card here. A spell there.

The consistency of a daily writing practice. Just ten minutes. Connecting to the unseen world within me. A way to draw it out. Release it. Creating space. To dance, to cry, to feel longing and joy, and freedom.

Listening to

Elizabeth Gilbert

speak about her daily practice of writing letters to love and how people often question who is really writing back. “How can I believe what it says? How do I know it’s really love that’s speaking?” they ask. Liz laughs and points out that we have no problem questioning the unkind voice of judgment and fear that offers a constant narration of our lives, controlling us like a tyrant wielding a sword of shame. When the judging voice says, "Who do you think you are? You're going to fail. I'm warning you not to get your hopes up!” We don’t even consider questioning it. We believe everything it says as if it is truth, as if it is us. May we learn to listen to the voice of love. May we believe the kindness it shares. May we hear love first.

This episode on what our rage is trying to tell us. Listened to it twice, shared it with my husband and his mother and a dear friend, and now you too.

This song. Sweet and gentile, lifting my heart in times when rising felt hard and I needed it most.

And this song. For the solo walks turned dancing-in-the-street moments. Just right for a little mood shift.

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More soon I’m sure, but until then a hint at some of what’s to come:

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With love and gratitude and joy in the returning,
Raina

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