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A soft place to land

Jan 31st, 2013

We all deserve a soft place to land.

No matter how much we want to live a fully-engaged, outside-our-comfort-zone life, the fact remains: engaging with fear is tiring. Stretching yourself every day is a lot of work, and when you’re facing your fears, you deserve to have somewhere that’s comfortable, easy, and entirely familiar to return to.

You’ve probably read the Neale Donald Walsch quote that states, “Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.” That quote has been broadcast so widely because it resonates with many of us as a kernel of truth. And I think Walsch’s message is spot-on. I’m wildly, enthusiastically in favor of taking risks and trying new things. But we cannot sustainably live our lives always on the outside of our comfort zone. We need somewhere to calm our nervous system, somewhere that our adrenaline production can slow for a spell.

What we need is a nest. I’m thinking, right now, of baby birds, whose mothers nudge or coax them out of their nests to teach them to fly. Most baby birds don’t just fly out of the nest one day and never return. Most often, they flutter awkwardly to nearby branches or sometimes plunk clumsily to the ground. Over time, they learn to fly. They need to in order to have the best chance at survival. But as they learn, they grasp onto tree trunks between their first short, tiring flights. They return to the nest, repeatedly, until the air becomes their kingdom.

After much trial and error, the birds become competent fliers. At that point, they’re able to leave their original nest and fly off to build their own.

We, too, need a comfy spot to touch down between exhilarating flights out of our comfort zones. Somewhere to rest our tired wings, slumber, and regather our courage. We all deserve a soft place to land.

Posted in: self-care & self-love.

What does your space say about you?

Jan 30th, 2013

by Kerilyn Russo.

1 comment

As someone who swims in the deep end of life, I usually find it hard to come to the surface and talk about things on the level of form. If you were to meet me for brunch (my favorite meal), almost instantly and without thought, I naturally submerge myself and who I’m visiting with, down to the depths of what’s underneath the surface, where I am most comfortable. It’s part of how I’m wired, sometimes a beautiful experience and sometimes, an intimidating one, if you don’t already have your scuba gear on.

Ironically, As an Interior Designer by trade, what I currently do to afford my life, means I’m solely on the surface. I have been privy to the experience of designing my own furniture, ballroom carpets, fabrics and wall coverings. I believe the best part of what I do is designing a space, and then, a time later, being able to walk through what I had envisioned. It still makes me giddy, every time.

I was given a piece of advice when I first started out in the Design industry, approximately 13 years ago, that I feel, has changed the way I feel about creating space, and It is this that I want to share with you. This piece of advice is what I tell anyone who asks me for their opinion, and I am in joy to share it, because it falls somewhere between being on the surface, and at the depths to which I easily swim every day.

Besides my belief about the three things that you can do to change your space, without spending a lot of money (Paint, Lighting, Art) this… is my most powerful design statement.

Your space… has to speak WITHOUT YOU.

I was first given this advice when the principal of a design firm I was interviewing with was looking at my portfolio. I had just graduated and was wet behind the ears and eager to begin my career. I think he could tell I wanted to learn, because he gave me an unsolicited piece of advice that I’ve never forgotten. He told me that my portfolio had to speak without me. He said that if I (Kerilyn) wasn’t here, my portfolio should tell him everything he needed to know about who I am as a designer.

That tidbit sunk into the CORE of who I am and I have been deeply impacted by its understanding. It’s what I want to bequeath to you today.

Let’s daydream a second, okay?

PRETEND you are having a cocktail party at your abode. Pretend the most inspiring people you’ve ever wanted to meet (Yes, even Oprah) is coming over to YOUR house to meet and mingle with you and your beloveds. They have never been to your house, and you wouldn’t consider them friends (yet) so this will be your first opportunity to share with them who you are.

Well your space can tell them, in fact, your space WILL tell them.

Most likely at this cocktail party, you will be busy doing the myriad of hostess duties and cannot possibly be able to be with all your guests at the same time. That means they are going to have to take in, by what they see, who you are by what they see as they “make themselves at home.”
Your space tells a story.

The people attending your party WANT to know who you are so they will most likely be looking around your space for the answers to the questions about you, they have. I mean, they are here because they want to get to know YOU, so why not use your space as a way to answer their inquiry?

Source: houzz.com via Jeanne on Pinterest

They will look at what you’re reading; they will look at your art. They will wonder where you got the vase that’s on the shelf and wonder what town or antique store (or contemporary furniture shoppe) you found that amazing piece of furniture.

They are taking in how they FEEL when they meander throughout your space and in turn, creating a STORY of who they think you are.

Gathering information.

Most likely, they’re not even conscious that they are filling in the blanks about who you are… but if you create your space as if its told the story of your life, then it’s almost automatic they would know more about you, as a result.

This said, I appreciate the designers and architects who subscribe to the minimalist philosophy, are attempting to let the structure speak, versus what’s in them. I absolutely can appreciate the beauty in simplicity, but for ME, a deep swimmer, I want to know who you ARE and your space can tell me a LOT about you without you even having to be there.

I know more about you here than here.

For instance, my life’s motto is an Italian phrase called Ancora Imparo. It means “I am still learning.” I want my space to tell the story that I am still learning. I want my space to tell the story of someone who is still learning, who is hungry to grow. The picture in the banner is a photo of my office. If you were standing there, you’d be able to easily understand who I am.

I am a reader – If I have an addition to anything, its books.
I have a green thumb. I really enjoy having plants around me, as a part of my silent family.
I love my family and friends – The picture frames on the shelf are of some of my favorite moments.
I constantly need reminders – It’s so easy to be swept away by life and I find the need to constantly remind and inspire myself when life gets complicated.
Music and movies are sacred – I want to share what movies and music inspire me as a way of connecting with the many ways life inspires and motivates someone else.

Could you see that in my space? Would you be able to tell more of my story by just standing there?
I think you would. Let’s go back to the cocktail party.

I know this is going to seem extreme (or silly), but bear with me. If I were a betting woman (which again, I am not), I would predict that 30% of those who were at the cocktail party, who visited the bathroom, would also want to know who I was, behind closed doors.

Yep, even your medicine cabinet tells a story.

Now, I don’t go around opening people medicine cabinets, BUT IF I had a reason to, what would that space say without the person being there? What better time than alone in a bathroom, to figure out who someone is, without outside bias. (Think about it)

At the end of the day, people are curious and they want to know who you are.

Oh, and in no way does having your space speak without you have to be expensive. No joke, the dresser that I have in my guest room is a pink, shabby chic looking piece that was sadly standing next to the dumpster, one day when I was walking home from work, on its way to its demise. The moment I saw it, I was SO curious about its story (and it was in great condition too), that I knew its life was far from over. To date, it’s been one of my favorite finds. (Much to my husband’s chagrin) Now it has an even better legacy, being saved from the trash compactor. (I even left the one wooden knob on there unpainted, as a mystery to its story)

Talk about something speaking without you.

With the advent of Facebook, Instagram and Pinterest, I have definitely seen many people who, whether they are aware of it or not, are subscribing to the philosophy of their space speaking without them.

In the age of having a photo tell a thousand words, one photo can say who you are without you being there.

I’m saying the same can be applied to your space.

So, if you’re in the market to change up your space, consider the question about what story you want your space to tell… and create around that question. If the time ever comes that a new person (yes, maybe even Oprah) comes to visit your house, wouldn’t you want them to know who you really are, without you having to say a word?

Posted in: beauty & aesthetics.

Pacifism’s second cousin

Jan 28th, 2013

by Roots of She.

8 comments

Guest post by Brit Hanson for Oh, these Wild Women: Stories from the tribe

Last May I moved to a hot valley in the heart of Colombia where the land’s veins are filled with oil and lungs fashioned from gold. My Mr. works as a human rights defender in a tongue twisting Colombian boomtown, Barrancabermeja. When months apart started leaning into years we decided it was finally time make a home together (there’s an entire Elizabeth-Gilbert-Committed-esque story line in here, but that’s for another time).

When naming 2012 The Year I Don’t Have To Be Good, I was making grand predictions of mornings spent in hammocks, loose fitting linen and hot tropical sex. I even had Mary Oliver’s ‘Wild Geese’ poetry punch line tattooed on my arm.

In my notebook I wrote:

The year I become the queen,
the fierce ruler
of my own criteria.

The year of parking tickets,
running red lights and
walking right off the edge.

The year of lingerie,
mini skirts and
lots of leg.

The year of colorful language,
telling the truth and
being bad.

Fun will no longer die on my doorstep;
she will be given a spare key,
greeted with expensive wine.

The sensual smelling lotion
will be kept on the top shelf,
with the pricey gin.

Ashes to Ashes style:
Shame will shrivel up,
disintegrate and die.

My breasts will peak out and wink
every morning at the breakfast table.

Not just at him,
but at me too.

If you don’t know by now,
I don’t have to be good.

Yes, I would eat breakfast topless, not due to the early morning heat, but because of the orgasm experienced while our eggs reached a soft boil. Soft boiled eggs are so sexy. When dressing I’d skip the step of strapping on my one fancy bra, not for comfort or strident feminist, but to save precious seconds during the Mr.’s lunch break allowing for more, you know, screwing. And not to be forgotten are those sexy little undergarments I purchased as a declaration of leaving behind the frigid midwestern winter.

This last New Year’s eve, as I sauntered from the bedroom to refill my drink in an oversized t-shirt and mundane cotton undies I found my bra dubiously wrapped around the kitchen stool. Was the misplaced bra a signpost of our careless disregard for tidy in the wake of a rousing round of creative sex in each of our apartment’s three rooms? Did we draw The Year I Don’t Have To Be Good to a close while overtaken by tropical, full moon, heat induced sextasy?

Oh, darling. Touché. So painfully touché.

Rather, our monster of a kitten is obsessed with my bras, even the cheap ones that don’t offer enough support. He fetches one daily from the sweaty clothes bin and carries it around our tiny home in his mouth, getting tangled in the straps with each step.

It’s too hot for sex. I don’t care if you are Dita Von Teese herself, desire does not override 121 degrees fahrenheit. Our monthly budget allows for air conditioning one night a week, but the music from downstairs is shaking our windows and we can’t focus on one another’s bodies. Of course, the frequency of sex is never as simple as the mercury level in the thermometer — though I hoped it would be.

I thought life would be better, moving here to be with my Mr., and not just in terms of sex. I expected the colors to be brighter, my legs to be longer and the oven to, well, bake; I even thought the pollution might be pleasant. I intended be more outgoing and adept to spontaneous outings and adventure. I planned to thrive as a fiercely independent woman, poetry, wit and, yes, sex oozing from my pores. I anticipated an underlying sense of heroism and bravery to buzz beneath my breath, not anxiety.

When my Mr. is out working in the countryside for days on end, there are nights that I lay on the bedroom floor; the weight of my skull pressing my cheek and brow bones against the ceramic tile help me to think more clearly, to remember why I uprooted a life I loved for what I have now.

I mentally scrawl a letter to Death rationally requesting she stay miles from my Mr. as he works, respectfully citing my earnest, his heroism and our notably young age as reputable convincing arguments. I’m much less religious than I used to be, though I do find myself wondering which saint of old I should petition to care for us both while he is away.

In reality, like most of us, I’m nobody’s do-good heroine. As awkward and morally revealing as it may be, I didn’t move to Barrancabermeja, Colombia for pacifism, nonviolence or human rights — not even the sexual underwhelm that was 2012. Instead, I was in Omaha going to work, enjoying porch parties with my friends and and discovering Joan Didion when the heart palpitating in my chest asked, “Don’t you think it’s time?” and in painful earnest I answered yes.

I’ve wondered about that earnest yes throughout the last eight months, not whether I made the right choice, but if I would’ve chosen differently had I known just how hard the change would be for me — that there would be no good olives or warm showers, that I’d feel suffocatingly alone, that we’d be having much less sex that I imagine, that I would develop persistent anxiety and paranoia as the Mr.’s work intensified. There are somethings you just can know.

Like I said, I’m nobody’s heroine. Though, I hear love, even when she wobbles, is pacifism’s fierce second cousin.

Brit Hanson is a poet, digital storyteller and social media tutor at BritHanson.com. She lives in Barrancabermeja, Colombia with her Mr.

You can find her on Twitter and Facebook .

Posted in: sexuality & sensuality.

These words give me room to breathe

Jan 26th, 2013

by Jenn Gibson.

No comments yet

a reminder before the trip, originally uploaded by jennaflee

The first time I used “breathe peace” as a mantra was 2009.

My then-boyfriend and I went on a trip to New York City to see some friends and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. We hopped a bus up I-95 and stayed at a hostel off of Times Square.

I was excited and ready for an adventure.
I was anxious and scared to be so far from my comfort zone.

Before we left I wrote two words on the inside of my wrist: breathe peace.

When I feel insecure, breathe peace.
When being somewhere new makes my heart race, breathe peace.
When all of the movement overwhelms me, breathe peace.

When the sunrise brings wonder into my heart, breathe peace.
When I’m thrilled to be traversing a city I love, breathe peace.
When I’m so happy I could bust, breathe peace.

It’s my bottom line: a reminder that I can handle anything as long as I take care of and with myself.

So of course when I created a self-care program I would name it Breathe peace.

Registration for Breathe peace runs through Jan. 31 – the next sesh runs Feb. 1-28. And it’s Pay What Feels Good.

This course shares

a slew of ways to establish a strong foundation with self-care practices
easy action items that focus on you moving into a place of reverent self-care
an anti-worst-case scenario plan to help keep burnout at bay
worksheets, audios, printables, guided meditations, and an e-book of everything covered as the course comes to a close

This is the last time I’ll be offering Breathe peace as an interactive e-course, so if you’ve been wanting to begin building you own beautiful, unique self-care practice with a community of women to support you, now’s the time to register.

Wishing you a beautiful day,

Posted in: self-care & self-love.

Grief and thin places

Jan 24th, 2013

by Heather Plett.

5 comments

The woodpecker at my Mom’s feeder, shortly after Mom died. :: Photo by Cynthia Plett

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This morning, I sat at my computer venting over email to my sister about a situation that is affecting both of us. While I sat pouring a little grief, anger, and frustration onto the computer screen, a faint hint of pink caught my eye on the horizon outside my window. I paused from my typing and watched as the pink foreshadowing began to grow and the sun prepared to make its daily visit to our half of the earth. Like a flower in stop-action video, the pink petals unfurled, showing finally, at the centre, the icy gold of the winter sun.

It was one of those moments – a thin place as they talk about in Celtic spirituality – where the veil between the mundane and the Sacred is suddenly especially thin. In those moments, the Divine brushes up against us, and if we are paying attention, we find ourselves in awe. I sat there in reverent silence, watching the pink turn to gold, still holding the grief that wanted to spill onto the page, and yet reminded in that moment that I was being held.

I’m finding often, in my grief, that I can hold both beauty and pain, both wonder and devastation, both love and anger, both tears and laughter in my heart simultaneously. In the depths of my pain, I am caught by the wonder of unexpected beauty. In my tenderness, I am especially vulnerable to devastating heartache and surprising beauty.

I miss my Mom terribly, and yet I have never felt so held in her love.

It’s a strange paradox, in fact, that the thin places seem to appear more often in times of grief – as though God were making a special effort to be present in the sadness. Just a few days ago, I watched in wonder as two crows did a strange and mesmerizing sky dance, diving, soaring, dropping, and spinning – always within about 6 inches of each other. There must have been some unheard music guiding their dance.

Birds have been especially present for me in the months surrounding Mom’s death. She became an avid bird-watcher in her dying days. A week before she died, my sister and I spotted a bald eagle near Mom’s house. Shortly after she breathed her last breath, my siblings and I sat in wonder as a woodpecker stopped to feed at one of Mom’s birdfeeders.

The birds serve as messengers of the Divine, bringing the thin places into my grief.

When we run away from grief, we miss the raw beauty of these tender moments. We miss the surreal beauty of life through grief-tainted eyes.

When my husband and I lost our son twelve years ago, it was the same. We both remarked how vivid everything seemed at that time and how we felt an unexplainable sense of peace carrying us through our days. Colours looked brighter, conversations dove deeper, beauty seemed crisper. Every day in our vulnerable state, we felt like we were living in the middle of a thin place. I’ve heard the same from other parents who’ve experienced loss – there is a strange beauty to vulnerability.

Grief takes away the layers that we normally build around our lives. It chips away the bravado, the masks, and the false courage and leaves us exposed, raw, and open to pain, but also to beauty.

I want to live in the middle of this paradox for now. I don’t want to run away from it. I want to be fully present in the thin place. I want to notice the pink sky, the dancing birds, and the bald eagles. I want to be mindful and open. I know that comes with a risk, but I’m willing to open myself up to it.

I want to hold the paradox in my hand and feed it scraps of my memories like the hungry birds at my Mom’s feeder.

Posted in: grief & healing.