There have big changes in my life lately, and they’re being echoed here in the look and feel of the site. I can’t wait to share more of my journey with you, but for now, I’m going to let this new offering speak for itself. I’m happy dancing over here because I am so excited to share my work in this new, super-affordable, bite-sized (so it fits easily in your day) format. Click on the image to take a look. I’d love to hear what you think.

with love + gratitude,
Alana

If you push, The Divine laughs. If you pull, The Divine laughs. And if you sit, The Divine says, “Another one ready for enlightenment.”
~ Derek O’Neill, from More Truth Will Set You Free

I am the light, light, light, light of my soul. I am beautiful. I am bountiful. I am bliss.
~Snatam Kaur

I’m lost, I said, relieved to have found a word to describe the struggle.
Stay lost, said the voice in my head.

*****

My husband and I had a painful conversation this morning. It turns out that who I feel I am on the inside doesn’t necessarily match his experience of me on the outside. At least not right now.

I went for a walk after he and Ada left for school, hoping that moving my body would calm the internal push-pull of this place I find myself in. Immersed in my thoughts, I almost ran into a Great Blue Heron crossing the path. From ten feet away, I watched him take slow, tentative steps, then dissolve into stillness once he reached the other side. A few more steps, then stillness. I ached to see him soar, majestic, no longer tentative.

Halting steps. Stillness. He wasn’t ready to soar. Tentative, but clearly not lost.

And so I sit, allowing this illusion of Lost to fill me, to crack me open. Lost is teaching me to step aside and let life live me. Lost is where I need to be.

I’m dissolving into stillness, slow, tentative steps on either side. I find myself here, in this place, reminding myself (and maybe you)…

Lost can be perfect, sacred, holy.

Because we’re not really lost. We’re just not ready to soar.

 

Prayer is when you talk to God. Meditation is when God talks to you. ~ Yogi Bhajan

A regular seated meditation practice continues to elude me. I’ve learned different techniques. I fully believe in the power of it. But I can’t seem to sit e.v.e.r.y. day. I could (and have) been hard on myself for this. Lately, I’ve been choosing to see my life as a meditation. Is this a cop out? Probably. If you asked a meditation teacher, I think you’d get an emphatic yes. But I’m walking my talk, and loving myself where I am, knowing there’s room to grow.

I’ve discovered that God talks to me when I dance, when I walk, when I sit by the ocean’s edge. If I empty my mind, open my heart and listen, I am gifted with clarity, knowledge, peace and inspiration. I hear my body, my intuition, and the whispered voice of Spirit. I hear the stories I tell myself and I connect to the truth that lies hidden underneath them.

I sit formally when I can. The rest of the time I do my best to listen, deeply and well, to my life.

Where can you love yourself more today, knowing there’s room to grow?

P.S. I am sending love to all those whose lives were touched by the explosions in Boston yesterday. I pray that as a society, we move closer to recognizing that when one of us bleeds, we all bleed. I’m holding space for forgiveness, for healing, for remembering…for life in all its fragility.

Last night, my brother emailed us photos from Easter weekend. I watched the slide show before heading for bed, smiling at the way his youngest reminds me so much of him and wishing we didn’t live so far apart. This morning I pulled Ada on my lap and we looked at them together. She loves all of her cousins and has a special bond with my brother’s oldest, who is 3 months younger than she is.

At the end of the slideshow, I clicked on another photo album from when the girls were little and gasped when I saw this photo.

I think it was taken before I was pregnant with Ben. Before I put on the additional weight from a broken leg and bed rest. Even so, I hardly recognized myself. Steve and I looked at each other as Ada piped up, “You look different mama.” He asked her what seemed different about me. She paused for half a second and replied, “Your nose!” I burst into tears and laughter at the same moment, kissing her on the head, holding her tight.

Sometimes change is so gradual we don’t see how far we’ve come in our daily lived moments. I don’t have many pictures of me from that time. I hated how I looked, how I felt, how big and tired I was all the time. After Ben died and I was 203 pounds of pain and grief, I realized accepting myself – loving myself – exactly how I was, was my path to health. But I still didn’t want any pictures taken. I wanted to remember those years with words, not photos.

In my head I know I’ve lost over 65 pounds and have kept it off for more than a year. At 41 I feel better than I have since I stopped dancing professionally at 21. When I stand in front of the mirror at Zumba or Nia class, my jaw sometimes drops at the me that looks back. Seeing myself in this picture, it was as though I traveled through time, re-experiencing the grief and healing of the last years in the space of a second.

Tonight I send a whispered, tear-stained thank you to my son, for being my biggest teacher, to my body, for thriving in spite of the scars, and to my daughter for seeing me with eyes of love. I am blessed.