Permission granted.
Take the time you need.
Lay down for a nap,
Read a book,
Stare at the walls.
The world won’t stop spinning
But you might.

Breathe deeply.
Let go of the need to
always be doing.

Repeat softly,
As often as necessary,
It’s okay to rest.
It’s okay to rest.
It’s okay to rest.

If this mantra doesn’t work for you, I invite you to choose one that does. And please come back to share what you use and how it goes.

P.S. You might have seen this picture here before. Clearly this is a reminder I need often. If you’re good at giving yourself the time and space to rest, I’d love to know the story behind that too.

As I was drifting off to sleep Friday night my mind wandered to what the coming week’s mantra might be. The words “You are enough. You do enough.” appeared on my internal movie screen. I think I first read them in one of SARK’s books 20 years ago and while I appreciated them then, it took another fifteen years for their impact to sink in. In my mid-30’s, immersed in rebuilding a marriage, returning to school and trying to have a baby I finally realized how much of my story revolved around feeling like not enough.

In the happy, busy buzz of my birthday weekend I forgot all about these thoughts. This morning my normal writing time was handed over to the bookkeeper and it wasn’t until I found myself headed to the dentist at 3pm, crying in frustration, that the words returned.

A younger me might have rolled her eyes at this point. But for the newly-minted 42 year old me, these words provided just enough space to see the story I was telling myself. In the story getting our books settled and ready for the accountant didn’t count as “doing” anything. Neither did having a great conversation with a colleague, or supporting a client.

The mind likes to play tricks and today, I fell for them. These two short sentences helped me dust myself off, acknowledge the very real frustration of having to postpone some of what needed to get done and with a huge helping of compassion, take myself to the dentist.

Was the day perfect after that? Nope. Was it better? Unbelievably so.

If this simple mantra doesn’t work for you, then I invite you to reach for one that does. And in the meantime, I’ll remind you:

You are enough. You do enough.

Yep.

Mantra:
noun
1. Hinduism. a word or formula, as from the Veda, chanted or sung as an incantation or prayer.
2. an often repeated word, formula, or phrase, often a truism: If I hear the “less is more” mantra one more time, I’ll scream.
* from dictionary.com

I use mantras on a regular basis. Both the chanted or sung version in my kundalini yoga practice and the often repeated word or phrase as a reminder of what I know, believe or want to believe. They ground me when I feel off kilter. They bring me back to center, to truth, to myself. I bring them into my meditations, use them in my classes and have them posted like affirmations around my home. I thought it would be fun to share some of them here. Feel free to play along, or choose your own.

This week’s mantra is I Surrender. I Receive., courtesy of my beautiful friend, pleasure catalyst Kerrie Blazek, (whose inaugural Whiskey & Whimsey retreat runs April 3-6 – check it out here).

I love this mantra. It reminds me that while I am responsible for my thoughts, my actions and how I show up in the world, I’m still sitting in the passenger seat. I can navigate with my desires but Life is living me.  I can’t see the big picture and the words “I Surrender” remind me to let go of the need to push, control and force my day into what I think it should look like. There’s a softness in “I Surrender” like a deep, settling breath. It’s not weakness, or giving up. To me it feels like I’m opening my arms and heart to the universe and beaming I trust you. Bring it on.

Then “I Receive” helps me stay open to what comes. There is so much goodness in the world and in my life. Sometimes I forget to notice, or take it in. These words help me stop and breathe in the joy of a dancing hummingbird when I’m having a hard day, the beauty of clouds back lit by the sunrise when I wish I were still in bed and the gift of my husband’s compliment when I’m stewing in my imperfections.

I Surrender. I Receive.

If you join me this week, I’d love to know how it goes.

I wrote this letter close to three years ago, almost 11 months after Ben’s stillbirth, shortly after my 39th birthday. I stumbled across it tonight in search of something else. It was originally inspired by Kristin Noelle over at Trust Tending (and there were many of us who wrote these letters at her gentle urging that month). Rereading it brought me to tears.

I’m just shy of my 42nd birthday. Life has changed at breathtaking speed since then. I’ve lost 65 pounds and kept it off. I’m healthy, strong and still don’t get enough sleep. The work of fully, deeply, truly loving my body continues. Recently I looked at myself in the mirror and my eyes were clouded with a haze of judgment. I stepped away, picked up my phone and took a picture. I’ve learned (thanks to Vivienne McMaster’s work) to see myself with love when I do this.

I’m sharing this again here, unchanged. I invite you to write your own love letter to your body. Keep it somewhere safe. Anytime you forget how miraculous you are, pull it out and re-read it.

Dear body,

You are a miracle.

I have spent my life alternately connecting with you deeply and ignoring you completely. Sometimes I’ve done both at the same time, in different ways. We learned to work together early on – me telling you to stretch and bend, plie and pirouette, leap and glide and you listening, learning, growing stronger and more expressive by the day. You were beautiful and I had no idea. I found you imperfect – too tall, too muscular, too earth-bound. We grew into each other, discovering our likes and dislikes. I pushed you to limits and paid the price. I let you off the hook. We danced together, feeling heart and spirit soar.

You knew touch too early – the touch that should be reserved for consenting adults. You did not consent. You absorbed guilt, shame, and pain. You sensed sadness and took that on too, holding it so far inside that even when I looked, I could not find it. You discovered a loving, gentle touch but the shame was such a part of you that unfettered joy was a distant dream.

You were admired, adored, worshiped, lusted after, held, hurt. You began to speak to me – in dreams and in waking. Sometimes I listened. Often I did not. We followed one path, then left it to pursue another. We got closer. I discovered that you held memories, voices, feelings, and thoughts. You had your own clear, powerful voice, different from the one I used to speak out loud. I sought to access your knowledge, mining it as diamonds and gold. We practiced our craft – you and voice becoming the expression of heart and mind. And still I found you lacking. I opened you up in one area only to shut the door in another. I allowed you to be over-full, to be hurt, to be overworked and under-loved.

We earned money together you and I. We danced and sang, posed for pictures that would fill photo albums all over the world. I numbed your ache with alcohol and drama, even while demanding you perform at your highest level. We spent a decade in and out of sadness and self-loathing, weight loss and gain, new experiences and old pains. We went to therapy, you and I. You sat cross-legged as I told my story and tried to understand.

Another decade is almost done and here we are. Still together. Still exploring. You’ve known heartbreak that made you feel as though you would shatter but you didn’t. You ached from the trauma and still, you carried me through. You came to a point where you could have given up, could have surrendered to the tug back home but you didn’t. You began to heal. In your desire to stay alive and mine to find joy, we have grown closer than ever. I’ve learned how many secrets you’ve kept hidden away, how many hooks were buried deep. The scars are more elastic than the skin that they replaced, and I can look at them with love for the first time. I have watched you change so many times and I am finally beginning to see you with the eyes of acceptance. The space between your cells is vibrating at higher rates and life is changing at an astounding speed. I feed you differently – both with food and activity. We are relearning pleasure, relearning joy. You are shedding the weight you no longer need to hide behind. I am imperfect – still finding ways to make you wait, still learning what you need to thrive. But you, dear sweet body, you are perfect. Holding my hands over my heart I bow to you with tears in my eyes. Thank you for carrying me so well, for so long. I’m sorry. I love you. Let’s dance.