|
Dear Subscriber First Name, At this time of year, as soon as the sun flirts with rising, so do I. Barefoot and sleepy-eyed, I wrap myself in a shawl and wander outside to be with the early light as it slowdances across the landscape. I treasure the coolness and stillness of this liminal time; before neighbors’ lights flicker on or I hear other people’s voices; before headlines, urgencies, or my reactions to anything. I love the moments of being outside before fully waking; the lusciousness of time before I can mistake any of my runaway thoughts for reality. I have been waking up more heavyhearted lately, more grief interlaced with my joy, and I’m living in this tender balance most of my waking moments. At this stage of my life, I am wise enough to know that the feeling isn’t looking to be fixed, it just wants to feel held. The pull of being outdoors right now is the promise of an experience of awe vast enough to hold everything that lives in my heart and more, so I cherish getting up and out early. Awe renders me wide-eyed, reverent, humble. It can right-size my concerns and grant me perspective. It is poignant, reminding me of life’s preciousness and transience. And there is no time when my early morning awe-practice is more profound than in the spring. Where I live, spring offers abundant proof of transformation and a daily basis for something that feels like hope. Every morning, the natural world has generated endless tiny and dramatic changes to behold. I feel like an un-selfconscious kid on a treasure hunt as I walk around my yard, from plant to bush to tree, curiosity compelling me to notice all the things that evolved overnight; all that opened while my eyes were closed. The natural world never fails to remind me that nothing is the same from one day to the next, and that evolution works its magic even in the depths of the dark - something it’s good for those of us who worship the light to remember! Most people I know are carrying a very heavy sense of concern about the world right now, as well as huge responsibilities in their personal lives. Myself included. I don’t know about you, but I have been convinced that when I feel weighed down in these ways, I need to “do” something right away. But when the doing feels daunting and the trying feels trying, awe reminds us to notice how much we actually don’t control; how much is - and always has been -happening without us. Awe can help us lean in to leaning back. It invites us to notice more, and to connect with a larger swath of truth before we act. Awe expands the Universe in which we hold our experience and it can grant us a more gracious, spacious place to navigate what we actually do with greater presence and passion. With greater fullness of heart. With gratefulness… This morning, after beholding an unimaginably large, quivering, tissue-paper-petaled poppy blossom the color of a fire engine that was only a small, light green bud yesterday, I remembered an old, favorite quote from Anais Nin: “And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” I find myself both comforted and enlivened by these words. I am reminded how much trust I have in breakthroughs and transformation, and that the possibility of these is held in moments we do not get to know in advance. Awe holds so much mystery. We do not get to schedule the day when the risk of one thing will suddenly outweigh another, or the hour when the tight casing will fall away from the fervent bud. But we can commit to noticing all the magnificence that is worthy of our wonder and preservation, and to nurturing our faith that blossoming comes. May the words and resources in this museletter, and on my website, support your experience of awe. And may gratefulness help to keep your heart soft and strong all the while. I am truly so honored to be on this planet in your good company. From my appreciative heart to yours -
|
