Month: February 2023

Thx Michael Meade.

Some jobs are simple. There is clear doing. And clear completion. Take out the trash. Do the dishes. Make the bed.

Some jobs are more involved. There isn’t meant to be a clear finish line. It doesn’t exist. Yet it is useful to notice. “Be fully alive” as named by Michael Meade above is one of those.

Being fully alive sometimes looks like being a keen noticer. Sometimes it is welcoming feeling. Sometimes it is experimenting with a new habit. Sometimes it is following the guidance of friends. Sometimes it is getting up to dance and move our bodies. Sometimes it is sticking with habits. Sometimes it is breaking norms. Sometimes it is starting anew. Sometimes it is choosing when enough metabolizing is enough metabolizing.

There is much in the “fully alive” category of practices. “Fully alive” is a bit scary to me. Almost too big? But doing and being that creates “alive energy” — yup, this one moves me in very kind ways. Shifts the story from a “thing of accomplishing” to an “energetic of being”. I suppose that very notion — shifting from a thing to an energetic of being — that’s bringing my alive a bunch now. With people I love or am coming to love. With groups I’ve been working with or am starting to work with. With making room for mystery to best friend. With the welcome of Life to live in and through me with hints and invitations galore.

Yes to aliveness. Whatever it’s dose. Yes to the surprise of aliveness, merely because I, or we, are welcoming it — like daffodils poking through the Spring ground. Yes to the welcome of aliveness in mystery — perhaps that is the most simple starting place.

Into a day.

A preferred learning style for me is often found in little things. A phrase. An image. A word. A principle. A story. An intuition.

When I say “little things,” in this case I really mean big things. They last with me. They center. They guide. They remind. They connect.

Sometimes I like to flesh out little things that are big things with more words and examples. Sometimes I can’t help it. Or, the situation calls for it. But also, sometimes, I prefer to let the feeling be the most important guide.

Case in point — from a random email on the weekend received from Mitch Anthony, a Brand Strategist. I don’t know Mitch. I don’t know how I got on his email list. But this is a little thing he shared:

“The purpose of life is to discover your gift.
The work of life is to develop it.
The meaning of life is to give your gift away.”
– David Viscott

It’s enough to carry the day for me in this preferred learning style. Little thing that is a big thing. Little thing that is like a set of glasses to wear, seeing regular life stuff a bit more keenly through that lens. Little thing that invites clarity. That invites wonder. That invokes a spirit of gifting. A spirit of purpose.

A next step, a little thing, framed by a continued purpose, a big thing — yup, I quite love to welcome this in myself and to guide it with others.

Little things.

A little potpourri today.

I’ll start with this Buffalo Style Drum. I’ve had it now for 15 years. I purchased it at a shop with many such drums. I made the drumstick. It’s willow from my back yard, and leather from the same shop that the drum came from. I love this photo — intersecting lines, marks on the hide, shadow. I love the symbol of drum — heartbeat so often for me. I love the invitation of the drum — simplicity, rhythm, heart, belonging through sound and through ceremony.

A little potpourri today.

I started re-reading Terry Tempest Williams last night. “Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert.” She’s a Utah person. I like it that her words bring me a little further in to my home geography. I love her invitation to story and to love.

“Beyond the junipers and pinions of this starless night, I face the deep stare of darkness. This wildness cannot be protected or preserved. There is little forgiveness here. Experience is the talisman I hold for courage. It is the desert that persuades me toward love, to step outside and defy custom one more time.” (p 208)

“Story bypasses rhetoric and pierces the heart. Story offers a wash of images and emotion that returns us to our highest and deepest selves, where we remember what it means to be human, living in place with our neighbors.” (p 3)

Yes. This is so deeply human, isn’t it, to be persuaded toward love and to live in such remembering and in such kindness.

A little potpourri today.

And then there is workshop design. I’m in some of it for two groups of people. I’m usually looking for some sweet spot with such offerings. On the one hand, I feel that my job is to meet them where they are, offering skills and orientations to do their work well, and to be in community well. On the other hand, I feel my job is to meet them where their hearts aspire and long. Through simple things. Through simple invitations. Through simple clarity.

My work can’t be void of poetic heart. This I have learned. It’s grown in my writings over the years. Yet it has roots back to the beginning. All of my work with key lineages — Berkana and living systems with Meg Wheatley, Circle with Christina Baldwin and Ann Linnea, and The Art of Hosting with Toke Moeller and Monica Nissan — they have all been growing patterns that point to love and to story.

Hmm…, I suppose I say all of that now, because I feel myself at yet another passage of murkiness growing toward clarity.

A little potpourri today.

I’m glad for the drumbeat of it, even when I can’t quite find the words. I’m glad for other dear ones that know just how to jump in.

A little potpourri today.

Yup, living a lot of this these days. Taking steps, sometimes. Not taking steps, sometimes. Walking in a fog, sometimes. Walking with found perception, sometimes. Starting, sometimes. Nexting, sometimes.

So, thx Rumi, Persian poet of the 1300s. Thx also Michael Meade (Mosaic Voices) from whom I got this above image.

Of course, the walk is both inner and outer, isn’t it.

Sometimes the wise walk is the momentousness of a first physical step out of bed in the morning. Or that first physical step to get outside. Of that first step to write a paragraph. Or that first step to make coffee. Or that first step to eat a salad. Or that first step to drive to a friend.

Sometimes the walk is the momentousness of the inner first steps, like sitting quietly away from the noise. Or that first step to reflect in a journal. Or that first step to release the grip of the old. Or that first step to claim joy. Or that first step to welcome alchemy again. Or that first step to sing to love again.

Steps. Inner, outer. Walking. Deepening. Delighting.

Life tends to welcome so much to appear — I keep learning.