Everywhere
the world is dancing.

Two squirrels high in the treetops
leap nimbly between branches,
unafraid to fall.
A ribbon of weather-bleached caution tape
flutters gleefully in the breeze.
At my feet, morning sun glints on the diamond shard
of someone’s discarded revelry.

I watch the river’s rush,
and feel my face crooked,
caught between joy and pain.
I’ve slipped on rocks before
and hesitate now,
unable to step as blithely.

Still, an eagle drifts
easily to his perch,
and the little laughing streams
call to me between pebbled shoals.
So I pick my way down to the water’s edge
and contemplate
its ceaseless flow and
the endlessness of it all.
The mornings when I am astounded
by the dearest freshness of things,
and those when I wake half-asleep,
secretly, simply exhausted
by constant change.

It’s a dance I can’t keep up with.

Honestly, I wonder,
how can we dance at all
when so much is wrong?

The river’s roar all but drowns
my thoughts as I watch
reflected light play on a stone,
revealing its hidden aliveness.
The sun warms my back, slow,
and a cautious joy rises inside.

Of course it is only as I turn
to leave the water and the woods
that gratitude and love
brim uncontained.
I can’t help but love
these soaring trees
and their fallen friends,
the unseen birds bravely trilling
another morning’s song,
and the dozen silhouetted crows
gathered at the somber summit
of a single still-leafless tree.

Giving in
to delight,
I think,

If the world,
knowing its sorrow,
dances on,
how can I not
dance too?

(written March 2020*)

 

Symptoms are most severe in the old.

First, on the tongue and lips
the aching
tang of salt water
though it’s been years since you visited the ocean.

Next,
the
heart
begins
to swell
bigger and
bigger until the body
can no longer contain it.

There are dreams
day and night
of roots spreading from your hands and feet
down into neglected earth,
tendrilling out to meet
the rooting of friends and strangers,
the web of all those you cannot touch
but grasp, now, that you love
and need, and they you.

The limbs can become
restless as they wake
from their senseless sleep,
realizing their power
as if for the first time.
There is a sense of urgency:
What have we been
doing until now?
What is ours to do?

Many
experience
a band of tightness across the chest
that is ancient
and needs tending
with deep breaths
and rest,
with a new gentleness
and curiosity towards one’s own being,
fragile and infinite.

There are reports
of interesting coincidences in timing:
the urge to quietly shut the door
some weeks before it was required.
A turning inward.
A turning outward.
A letting go.
The resolve to be oneself at last.
Feeling very small and very large.

As if we knew it was coming,
especially the young among us,
who, though without visible symptoms,
are most deeply affected:
awake, on watch, alight.

 

*and, no, neither I nor any of my family are actually infected by the coronavirus!
But I am hopeful for a different kind of infection for us all globally, once this is past.

Dear friends, there’s a lot going on right now. And it’s changing all the time!
Each of us will be responding to this situation with the COVID-19 virus differently, struggling with different parts of it and not struggling with others, and as things change and develop so quickly, we are forced to change and adapt too. I don’t know about you but I’m not a great fan of having to change and adapt quickly!

I’m feeling so aware that, in these strange and uncertain times, we very much need each other. I am also feeling the urge to be intentional about what I need to do in order to navigate the ongoing, potentially stressful circumstances as well as I can, and to do whatever I can to support and help others. I want to find practical ways to do this, and have a few ideas bubbling, but decided to start by offering a meditation and story I brought to our community at St. Stephen’s University this afternoon, when we met to let students know that in-person classes are suspended for the remainder of the academic year.

I’m hoping that this offering will both help with what you may be feeling right now, but also suggest some really simple tools you can continue to use in the weeks to come. Because we all need some calm and compassion round about now, am I right? Before the meditation, I want to start with a story of my own from this week, as a way of giving myself, you and all of us permission to be dealing with this in all the varied ways we are and the ways we will.

So, on Saturday – having heard on Friday that schools in New Brunswick were closing for two weeks and so my daughter Amelie would be home for that time – we went to Superstore to buy groceries we needed, and I decided to buy a little more than I usually would at once. I was NOT STOCKPILING, I might add – I only bought six giant packets of toilet roll (jk, I didn’t buy any!) – just enough to not have to go back in a few days like I normally would. I haven’t been feeling overly anxious about the outbreak, a bit concerned for my elderly parents in the UK, but on the whole feeling like we can do this, we can make the changes we need to in the face of this challenge, we can even learn from it, and support each, and do this together. Anyway, there Amelie and I were in Superstore, putting most of the things on my shopping list into the cart, but also coming across a few items we wanted that were sold out, like (horrors!) British-style Heinz baked beans. And, yes, the loo roll section was almost empty. (What’s with that?!) Good thing I bought some last week haha! Around the Natural Food section, Amelie got out her phone and was on it but walking next to me while I got milk, salsa, and so on.

After a bit I turned to her and said, a little snappily, “Why are you on your phone?!” To which she replied “Because you’re being so weird!”

“What do you mean?” I responded, “Like asking you why you’re on your phone?”

“No! Before that! You’ve been being really weird, kind of angry, and annoying, like a really weird energy, and that’s why I went on my phone – to get away from you!”

I wanted to deny this and defend myself, because I really thought I was doing fine, but I managed to refrain, and tried super-humanly hard to be pleasant – maybe even fun?! 😉 – the rest of the way around the store. I realized as I did this that, yes, I did feel a bit weird, but hadn’t been aware of it until Amelie acted as a kind of mirror for me. (It’s one of the profound gifts of having a daughter!) 🙂

I felt bad for affecting her with my unconscious weirdness, and annoyed with myself that I hadn’t noticed there was anything going on. But I’m slowly learning that judging myself doesn’t do any good, while self-compassion and gentle curiosity go a long way! So I tried to be compassionate and curious towards myself and my behaviour:

“Hmmm… what’s going on in me right now? I’m trying to be a grown-up here and just deal with it, but this is weird and I’ve never experienced all this and I don’t know what’s going to happen and what my next weeks are going to look like! True, I haven’t felt particularly anxious, but I when I pay attention to my body and my emotions I realize I definitely feel unsettled, uncertain, and because of that somewhat on edge, and that’s making me annoying… and weird!”

So that was me this weekend. Today it’s different; I realized this morning I felt a bit emotionally vulnerable. This afternoon I feel more mentally muddied. And of course tomorrow it will be different again, and I probably won’t realize quite what’s going on inside me – and outside! – for a while, till I overreact to something or someone, or notice my body not feeling good in some way.

All of you have your own stories that you could tell, and some of your story you might not be particularly happy with or proud of, and other bits you’d be fine with… and isn’t that just what it’s like to be human? But all of us are dealing with new realities and will continue to do so for a while, and that brings new stress for us to cope with. We are all doing our best, using the tools we have at our disposal, maybe learning new ones as we go along, not knowing at times how to understand ourselves, or how to keep up or catch up with what’s going on around us or in us. In all of it, I hope we can keep trying to be kind to ourselves and those around us as we respond/ react to whatever is happening, bringing gentle curiosity rather than judgment to ourselves and others. And I hope this meditation can help with that.

A Meditation for Calm & Compassion

The meditation I’m going to offer is a really simple one where we’ll be invited to take a few minutes to just be in our bodies – these dear bodies of ours that carry us through life and hold all our emotions, and that are processing a lot right now. We have this simple and incredible tool at our disposal at any moment of the day to help us come into our bodies and give them some support – our breath. Whenever we take just a few moments to consciously breathe, we come into our bodies rather than getting stuck in our minds with their often racing, problem-seeking and problem-solving thoughts; and as we breathe and come into our bodies we also come into the present moment, rather than being stuck in the future or the past. So let’s do that now.

Make sure you have some protected time for this and are in a comfortable position. Take your time with it, pause often, enjoy. You can decide whether you want to read ahead to see where this is going and then come back to engage with each element, or simply pause after each new suggestion. Of course, and always, adjust things to fit who you are and what you need in this moment – we are all different and that is wonderful!

Take a moment as you begin to really notice where you are, and then to notice your body in the chair or however you are positioned. Now either gently close your eyes or lower your gaze to the ground and keep it there softly, and just notice that your body is breathing itself without you making an effort for it to do so. You are alive and sustained.

Start to deepen your breath now, breathing in through your nose if you can, and out through either the nose or the mouth. Take a few deep breaths in and out, and notice how your chest and your belly expand and rise as you breathe in, and fall and empty as you breathe out. If it helps you, place a hand on your chest or stomach or both, as you breathe, and pay attention to the movement of your hand instead of the breathing itself. Just breathe.

If you want to, you could start now to lengthen the exhale, and really pay attention to it as the breath leaves through your mouth or nose. I like to breathe enough that it makes a bit of a rushing noise, with the mouth either closed or open. If you do this, listen to this hushing noise as you exhale, and let it be a HUSH, a kind and comforting “Ssshhh”, that you are saying wordlessly to your body, to your emotions, to your mind. Just saying,”It’s OK! Shhhh. Hush.” Just breathe a few times like this, deeply in, deeply and slowly out, with a comforting HUSH to yourself.

As you breathe now, notice if there is anywhere in your body that is feeling anxious or tense or unsettled. If you like, put a caring hand on the part of your body where you feel this emotion or sensation, and as you breathe, use your breath to give loving attention and support to this part of you or this feeling, with no judgment and no need to fix or change it or yourself. Just letting it be, just breathing, just being as you are in this moment.

Continuing to breathe, you might be able to release some tension you feel in your body on the exhale, perhaps relaxing your shoulders or un-tensing your hands.

As you give yourself and your body this loving, accepting, calming presence, just as you are right now, I invite you to repeat, out loud if you want or can, or just internally in your mind and heart, these phrases that express the lovingkindness you are directing towards yourself:

May I be filled with lovingkindness.

May I be safe and protected.

May I be well in body and mind.

May I be at ease and happy.

As you continue to repeat these phrases (used in Lovingkindness Meditation), you can picture yourself – either as you are now or as a child – and hold that image in your mind and heart as you direct lovingkindness towards yourself. Adjust the images and the words as you want and need in order to best open your heart to kindness and compassion, remembering that without loving yourself it is difficult to love others. 

May I be filled with lovingkindness.
May I be safe and protected.
May I be well in body and mind.
May I be at ease and happy.

Repeat these phrases a few times, letting any feelings of compassion and love permeate your body and mind, while also being aware that the meditation could feel mechanical or awkward or bring up feelings that are the opposite of lovingkindness – maybe feelings of irritation or anger or sadness. If this happens, it is especially important to be patient and kind toward yourself, allowing whatever arises to be received with friendliness and kind affection.

Now, having evoked this lovingkindness towards yourself, you can expand this to include others, turning any worry or concern you may feel for others into intentional wishes for their well-being. So choose a person or people that you are concerned about, picture them, and repeat the same phrases with them in mind, with love and care:

May you be filled with lovingkindness.
May you be safe and protected.
May you be well in body and mind.
May you be at ease and happy.

As you repeat the phrases, it doesn’t matter whether the image or feelings are clear or not. It just matters that your intention is to wish them well, and to open your heart to lovingkindness and compassion.

May you be filled with lovingkindness.
May you be safe and protected.
May you be well in body and mind.
May you be at ease and happy.

After directing lovingkindness towards this person or these people, you can if you like gradually begin to include others in your meditation, perhaps in ever-widening circles, even expanding your concern and compassion to include our global community at this time. We need this, our world needs this.

May you be filled with lovingkindness.
May you be safe and protected.
May you be well in body and mind.
May you be at ease and happy.

As we draw this meditation to a close, take a moment to check in with your body. How does it feel now? If there is even the slightest bit of calm or compassion or peace that’s been created by coming into your body, paying attention to your breath, and directing lovingkindness towards yourself, your body, and others, notice this and savour it now for a moment. Let it be. Let it grow.

As you end this meditation, you might want to take a moment to let your body know you will be back at a future point to give it some more loving attention and let it breathe more deeply. 

Well done and thank you!
Be safe, friends, and BREATHE! 🙂

I’ve been woken by a dream that has me up in the middle of the night hen-pecking out these thoughts on my laptop, my route to the couch only detoured via the bathroom for comfort and the kettle for a hot toddy to soothe a scratchy throat. My quiet companions are the sparkling Christmas tree – just another couple of days perhaps until we have to say goodbye – and the diffuser, offering me its fragrant mist of cleansing essential oils.
And the phrase that is playing in my head and heart, the phrase into which my dream thoughts crystallized, is this:

We are always only a story away from tapping into another hidden reservoir of empathy.

My dream story centred around an NGO called Borders without Boundaries that advocated for people who needed help gaining citizenship (I googled it and an existing organization actually offers pet rescue and adoption in Nebraska!). In the dream I was remembering my initial disconnect regarding their work – “Why are people so passionate about this issue? I don’t get it.” – which was soon followed by realizations about my own experiences of belonging and not belonging, and the ensuing empathy had led me to lend my own time and energy to their advocacy work. Apart from the (“though I say so myself” – my subconscious!) rather creative imaginary NGO, the scenario is a simple one to which I think many of us relate.
We are all so familiar with these experiences:

– What it feels like to NOT feel empathy, to NOT relate to someone else’s struggle or concerns
– What it feels like to break through into a new understanding of and connection to somebody’s struggle and concerns, and the resulting surge of “feeling with”

I expect most of us can relate, too, to the way that empathy can change our behaviour, leading us towards actions we couldn’t have imagined giving ourselves to before – loving actions on behalf of others, and actions that expand our own little worlds and hearts. I don’t know about you – and I expect we may all be somewhat different in this regard – but I very much dislike the feeling of not empathizing. [Note: I regularly do not empathize and am simply not conscious of it but rather just taken up with my own concerns; it’s the awareness of lack of empathy and how it feels that I dislike!] I don’t like witnessing others’ passion, struggle or pain and feeling cut off from them by my own lack of common experience. I often feel guilty or ashamed about this, as if I should be able to empathize with everyone and everything, though I have learnt that the guilt or shame response is usually remarkably unhelpful, only furthering the disconnect. I think what I liked about the simple story in this dream was how it mapped out the path that can be followed from lack of empathy to empathy, and from empathy to action. And as I pondered this path, lying in bed in the dark, it seemed to me that the crossroads on this path is always STORY.

My lived story and our shared story
In the dream, and often in my own real-life experience, the story that leads to an empathy breakthrough is a mixture of my own with the other’s. I have enough of an inkling of the other’s possible concerns to be able to relate them to my own, to my personal, lived history, and find a point of connection that widens my understanding and compassion. This happened yesterday over breakfast with a friend. As we ate and talked, I became aware of similarities between the realities of a relationship in my own life and one in hers, which in turn opened up new perspective, feeling and connection. We shared tea, toast, and moist eyes.

Empathy is a deep well. I became aware of this in a profound way during my spiritual direction training when, during a one-on-one supervision session, a mentor helped me dig beneath my experience of listening to someone and see how my own “graced history” (as we say in Ignatian parlance!) formed the backdrop of my ability to be with them and be present to their story. I was amazed and grateful to see how my own experience had created the empathy I was drawing on to be a compassionate, listening presence for someone else. And this is the wonderful truth: when we walk through our life’s own challenges and pains and receive the “grace” they have to offer, we have new resources at our disposal for ourselves and others. Though we are not always consciously aware of this well of personal history and empathy from which we are drawing – and that’s probably how it should be most of the time – the well is there, and it is deep, and it can flow into our lives and actions in powerful, healing ways.

Another’s story
Sometimes the connection with my own story is less obvious and the other’s story takes centre stage. What a privilege it is to be trusted with the gift of someone’s story in all its beauty, pain and difference from our own, and to be given a window onto another experience of being human. I sometimes wish I could recall all the weighty and simple stories I have heard over my lifetime; and yet I know that even those I can no longer remember form a tapestry of my understanding of the world, of life, of humanity, and of myself. Certain stories I will of course never forget because they belong to those close to me and have in some small or significant way also become my story. Other stories are indelible because hearing them changed me forever. I can clearly picture and feel the moment in our kitchen when I received the gift of a friend’s story of years of hiding and trying to change their sexual orientation, the anguish this caused, and the liberation and joy that were ushered in by a decision to embrace all of who they are. Although my perspective on sexual orientation had already shifted enough to be able to really hear and celebrate this story in the moment, hearing it still brought a whole new level of understanding, empathy, and connection, and generated an ongoing evolution of thinking and seeing. While the “coming out of the closet” story (or “being backstage until the right time to take the stage, revealing parts of one’s identity in different ways to different people,” to adopt an alternative metaphor being explored by queer friends) is not mine, in that moment in the kitchen it became forever personal. What could have been an anonymous “issue” had a face, a name, and a whole history of pain and joy that I couldn’t ignore.

Others’ stories, when they are entrusted to us, have the ability to change us if we will let them. It’s not always an easy process, but isn’t it miraculous to have at our fingertips this commonplace yet remarkable way of enlarging who we are, in order to become bigger human beings? It’s as if others’ stories excavate the well of our empathy, making it ever deeper, giving us more to draw on. Or, to return to my original metaphor, perhaps the next reservoir of empathy was always there hiding, waiting, and a story breaks through into it, making its source accessible to us.

My unheard story
There’s one more way in which I think it’s true that we are always “one story away from tapping into another hidden reservoir of empathy.” Sometimes our own story can feel like the wall that divides us from empathy rather than a conduit for it. Perhaps we just cannot find enough common ground to be able to understand and relate to the other, or any common ground at all, and our different stories feel divisive rather than connective. Or perhaps, amidst some understanding and connection, our different stories feel in conflict. Recently, for example, a friend was sharing a painful part of their story with me, and I became aware that despite the fact that I felt for her, it was triggering anger in me. I am working on becoming more comfortable with my anger but it is still not a pleasant experience for me, and I especially did not like the fact that in that moment I was not as able to be present to her story but was actually living and feeling my own story (though they overlapped, and there were ways in which my anger may have been more appropriate and helpful than I thought at the time). But what that moment put me in touch with was a pool of my own pain that needed my attention. However much I wanted to push it down, my anger insisted on springing up and, later, tears and memories, thoughts and realizations sprung up along with it. And here’s what I’m thinking: When this happens to us, when strong emotions and the story that fuels them rise unbidden, we have surely come face to face with the story that we need to listen to right now. Yes, we may put it aside for a while if circumstances don’t allow us to listen straight away (and if we WANT to listen to the other story at hand!), but we do well to make time and space to listen, feel and explore the story that has risen up inside us as soon as we can. Because I believe that, today, THIS is the story that will widen and deepen our well of empathy.

I suppose this is a relatively new thought for me. I’ve been more familiar with the idea of giving space for another’s story and allowing it to generate empathy, though often in connection with my own experience. The idea that I need to make space for and listen to my OWN untold, unheard story too – sometimes even prioritizing this over another’s story – and that this can also evoke greater empathy rather than just egoistic self-absorption, is still somewhat novel and surprising. But I believe it and have experienced it. I am also beginning to realize what happens when I don’t honour my own story and experience.

In a recent session of peer supervision, a fellow spiritual director and I explored a moment that had come to my awareness – of pain I had felt while listening to a directee’s story. I had definitely experienced empathy as I listened, but I could still recall this particular pain in my chest and how it (I realized as we explored) had an awkward, stuck quality about it. While empathy feels like a force that flows out towards the other, connecting us, perhaps even inviting us somewhere out beyond ourselves, this was a pain that made me hesitant about how to respond and turned me in on myself. I came to recognize that it was my own bottled-up and unfelt pain, and again it was asking to be noticed and given attention. Until I really hear this story and its pain carried in my body, it remains locked up and keeps parts of me locked up too. But what I am realizing, and find incredible, is that listening to and feeling and honouring my story – and its pains, joys and lessons – releases this inner backlog to become part of that deep well of empathy. The well of my tears can become a wellspring of life.

I hope that this transformation can be true, too, when what is triggered by another’s story feels like a blank wall of nothing – “I just cannot relate. I don’t even WANT to relate!” What I’m coming to see and believe is that there is a beautiful path of empathy – or a river, if you will – that we can follow at any moment and from any starting point if we want to, and it always involves listening to the story that is demanding to be told. So when I hit a brick wall of lack of empathy, I don’t need to judge and berate myself; in fact that would be entirely counter-productive. Instead, I can listen with curiosity to my own story as it informs my response to the other (there’s a reason for my lack of empathy and I need to honour it), and I can see where that leads me, whether it may open up a new insight or possibility, what glimmer of desire I might find for new understanding and compassion, and how it may lead me towards hearing the other stories I need to hear in order to stretch and enlarge me.

In these varied ways, what can feel like “the blockage to empathy” – what I can sometimes experience as my irritating, encroaching, distracting or unhelpful feelings and thoughts – are so often actually the conduit rather than the blockage, the path rather than the dead-end, if we will just stop and listen to the story they are telling.

Well, friends, it’s still dark outside but the first bird is singing and I can see tree limbs outlined black against a slightly lighter sky, and I am going to try to get a little more sleep now that I’ve processed the dream and these thoughts. My body is tired but my soul is reinvigorated to follow this path towards empathy, knowing more deeply that stories – yours and mine and ours – are the crossroads and the crux and the conduit. There is a flow and we can join it.
We are always only a story away from tapping into another hidden reservoir of empathy.
May we listen well.

I know I’m not the only person gearing up for winter – some with glee, it seems, but the ones I’m most aware of, and among whose number I count myself, with some dread. And no wonder – the winters here are LOOOONG! With eleven experiences of a white Canadian rather than grey British winter now under my belt – snowy and icy rather than wet, wild and harsh rather than temperate – I know what’s coming, and I know it’s challenging.

But this year, for some reason, I’ve been very aware of what’s happening inside me and how it affects my behaviour, as I anticipate this annually inevitable season – the inner “bracing” accompanied by the onset of complaining about plunging temperatures and the amount of snow – and I’ve found myself pondering and questioning my attitude. I’ve seen and reposted a number of social media posts about shifting one’s attitude to winter, so as not to fight it but instead receive the different rhythm and gifts it has to offer. People’s responses have shown me that I’m not the only one pondering this. But this weekend my thoughts evolved from wondering what it would mean to “thrive” winter instead of merely survive it, to asking myself WHY this feels so important to me at the moment. I decided that it’s because the way I choose to approach winter – do I resist or accept, brace or embrace, enjoy or complain? – so closely mirrors how I choose to approach LIFE, especially its hardest or simply unchosen parts. And I really want to learn how to live life in more open, present, accepting, and joyful ways. In life as in winter, I’m more and more aware of the missed opportunities for joy and growth, and the needless suffering and expenditure of energy, that result from my resistance to reality and futile efforts to control what can’t be controlled.

This realization about why I’m so drawn to reconsidering my approach to winter led me to make a decision!

I’m going to make it my intentional focus and challenge to thrive winter this year.

(Yes, I’m well aware I am defying grammar rules with this use of “thrive” – it’s intentional… and cutely clever, right?!) 😉

So what does it mean to make it an intentional focus to thrive winter? This is what it means for me:

• Practicing accepting, embracing and enjoying the realities of winter in place of resisting, bracing, and complaining
• Choosing gratitude about what IS through noticing and savouring winter’s gifts
• Actively seeking and choosing activities and postures that winter enables or encourages
  

   

  [Note: Go back and re-read those three points, replacing winter with life, and I think you’ll see the potential for a “winter attitude experiment” to have far-reaching implications for approach to life in general!]

It’s equally important to me what this intentional focus does not mean, though. It does NOT mean:

• Denying what is hard, unpleasant or limiting about winter 
• Making arbitrary and simply external goals and commitments about what I do during the winter

To unpack these two thoughts a little more:
I am most interested in my inner attitude or posture, so I don’t want or need to make a legalistic commitment to, say, never respond to a friend’s comment or complaint about the season with commiseration. Too much verbalized complaining can definitely become an unhealthy habit for me, but its power really comes from the inner stance of bracing and resisting. Further, I don’t believe that true gratitude means ignoring or denying challenging realities, but rather that real, deep gratitude is the energy that can help us to live and thrive in all things. (I’ll likely write more about this at a future point so stay tuned.)
Likewise, I most definitely want to have fun playing with my choice of activities in order to make the most of winter – the creativity, crafts, coziness, winter cooking and inner work that the hibernating instinct facilitates, as well as activities that get me happily outside and active – but I have discovered from past experience that I can distract myself from harder but more important “soul work” by focusing on somewhat arbitrary goals such as “get outside at least four times a week” or “take up three new hobbies before March” etc! I know a significant part of any change in my attitude will both result in and flow from embodied choices and actions, and I’m excited about and committed to that; along the way I may well set numerous actionable goals that support my intention. I just want to ensure that I don’t subtly shift my focus to mere externals as a distraction from the inner changes I’m seeking. Because I am motivated to thrive winter as a “trial run” for thriving LIFE! 

So what do you think? Do you want to join me?
I’ve already learnt so much from others about different ways to approach winter (and life!) and I’d love to learn more, to thrive winter/ life TOGETHER, and to share with you what I’m learning, experiencing, doing, and thinking about… If this winter experiment resonates with you, leave a comment here or on Facebook/ Instagram, and let’s start this journey together!
[I’m going to use #thrivingwinter when I post about this, so I invite you to do the same and/or tag me so I can follow your journey too.]