Steadying ourselves with Beauty, Truth and Goodness

November 2024

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.
“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times.
But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what
to do with the time that is given us.”

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Good morning from my blue chair,

Continuing to work with holding steady along with taking swift action, I’m writing to share my annual November reflective writing practice with you . . .

This November practice invites you to reflect back carefully over the year through the lens of Beauty, Truth and Goodness. On this fresh morning the world does seem to be in a ruckus — and when I dropped into this writing practice myself, I found the ruckus as well as some solace. These are hard times to keep our hearts strong and open. It appears that collectively we are not doing so well with sharing power. There are winners and losers everywhere. So finding the beauty, truth and goodness has become all the more compelling as we seek to steady ourselves and find a way to contribute somehow.

For those of you who have dropped into this practice in years past, you will see that I’ve kept it the same, confident that these questions will always bring a fresh response as we look back over the past year to find the Beauty, Truth and Goodness that is there.

Carve out some time to reflect on the last year in your journal. (Pulling out your calendar to jog your memory might be helpful.) With pen in hand or fingers on your keyboard, soften your gaze as you scan back over the past year and respond to the prompts below. You can do this for the year in one sweep or take each season as I suggest below. The invitation here is to be responding to these prompts four times, beginning with the winter a year ago. (Could take you as long as an hour or so to complete . . . ) Significant milestones or intimate moments in your answers are all appropriate. I think you will find that specificity gives wonderful depth to the process.

For each of the seasons, Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall:

Describe a time that you experienced beauty.
In what way(s) were you the cause of something beautiful?

In what way(s) was a hard truth revealed to you?
In what way(s) did you reveal or speak a hard truth?

In what way(s) was a beautiful truth revealed to you?
In what way(s) did you reveal or speak a beautiful truth?

In what way(s) were you on the receiving end of goodness?
In what way(s) were you the cause of goodness?

Upon completion, give yourself a little time to let your responses settle in you. Take a walk or a bath, if you can, and take in the beauty, truth and goodness that you found when you put pen to page. Stay with the hard truth that may have surfaced and seek support from wise loved ones if you feel the need. You might want to capture some further reflections before moving into the fullness of your day or evening.

I’ll be posting my annual year end practice in December, which will give you an opportunity to look ahead and consider any reorientation, renewed commitments, or actions that all of this may inspire in you.

May we all find our way to contribute. May we all wage peace . . .

Warmly, Lyedie

One final note: Yesterday morning in our writing group a friend read this poem and it landed for me, so I thought I’d share it with you.

How the Light Comes

I cannot tell you
how the light comes.
What I know
is that it is more ancient
than imagining.
That it travels
across an astounding expanse
to reach us.
That it loves
searching out
what is hidden
what is lost
what is forgotten
or in peril
or in pain.
That it has a fondness
for the body
for finding its way
toward flesh
for tracing the edges
of form
for shining forth
through the eye,
the hand,
the heart.
I cannot tell you
how the light comes,
but that it does.
That it will.
That it works its way
into the deepest dark
that enfolds you,
though it may seem
long ages in coming
or arrive in a shape
you did not foresee.
And so
may we this day
turn ourselves toward it.
May we lift our faces
to let it find us.
May we bend our bodies
to follow the arc it makes.
May we open
and open more
and open still
to the blessed light
that comes.

by Jan Richardson

Cultivating Steadiness

June 2024

This is the first of a two part series — Steadiness and Swiftness

On cultivating steadiness . . .

Lately I’ve been appreciating steadiness.

A few weeks ago, I was talking with my sister on the phone. We talk fairly often and we began this conversation by touching in on the weather and the news-that-sure-looks-bad . . . Then I blithely started asking her about the progress she was making on fixing up her apartment, her garden, and projects at work. She let me go on for a bit — then she gently but firmly stopped me in my tracks, “Lyeds, right now I’m just working on steadiness.” She took me right down with that one — humbled me beautifully.

What great pointing directions she gave me that morning! The value of steadiness has been showing up ever since.

Being steady— a steady presence, making steady progress, being a steadfast ally requires being able to manage our nervous system so that we can access our most resourceful selves. Holding steady within ourselves and on behalf of others is kind of a radical guiding star intention in a culture that privileges hastily made progress and being busy getting things done.

So I thought I’d share a few tiny-little-practices to cultivate steadiness:

Step outside for a few minutes in the morning. Locate a place near your doorway to stand and face towards the sun that rises every morning with remarkable consistency. Tune in to the rhythm of your heartbeat and the steady rising and falling of your breathing. Allow your breath to drop down towards your belly until each one is a full belly breath. Notice any impulse to rush into the day. Whisper to yourself, “There is time enough for this precious moment to be savored . . . “ Savoring, I’ve discovered has a steadying influence. (2 minutes, preferably barefoot)

Look for opportunities to be alongside big old trees whenever you can. Let them be the shoulder you can rely on, and the inspiration to attune to their steady presence.

Think of the people in your life who offer a steadying presence, furry friends and winged companions, too. Offer them some regard for that gift that often goes unnoticed.

Whenever you reach for banisters, railings, grab bars, gunwales on a boat, recognize that someone put them there to steady you. The world is full of them.

Consider the brilliance of the invention of the centerboard in a sail boat. Imagine yourself at the helm of a day-sailer in a fresh breeze— when the wind picks up heeling you over as you gain forward motion you have that centerboard to put down to stay balanced and centered. With this imaginary centerboard you can seize the opportunity that a fresh breeze offers and keep from taking on water, or tipping over altogether.

These are just suggestions. There are many ways to cultivate inner steadiness and foster steady relational fields. I’ve discovered that steadiness is achieved by showing up with a mixture of substantial-ness and the rhythms of routine. And then there is always my imaginary centerboard.

Let me know what you discover if exploring this inspires you.

And finally, a poem by Emilie Lygren

The News

Each morning we listen for what is breaking—

the sound of a thousand tragedies fills the air,
shattering that never stops,
headlines, a fleet of anchors tangled at our feet.

We watch, worried
if we turn away even for an instant,
it will all crumble the rest of the way.

Forget with me for a moment.
Take an unguarded breath.
Do it now, the world needs your attention here, too,
on the rise and fall of your shoulders,
the rustle of leaves outside the window,
the warm space between your gaze and mine.

Beauty, Truth and Goodness on this fresh morning, in this broken world . . .

it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in this broken world

- Mary Oliver

Good morning from my blue chair,

I’m writing to share the first in a series of my annual reflective writing practices with you. This November practice invites you to reflect back carefully over the year through the lens of Beauty, Truth and Goodness. On this fresh morning the world does seem broken and when I dropped into this writing practice myself, I found the brokenness as well as the wholeness — These are hard times to keep our hearts strong and open. So finding the beauty, truth, and goodness has become all the more compelling as we seek to steady ourselves and find a way to contribute somehow.

For those of you who have dropped into this practice in years past, you will see that I’ve added a new element this year — prompting you to look into both the beautiful and hard truths which are revealing themselves.

Here is the revised practice: Finding the Beauty, Truth and Goodness in the Year

Carve out some time to reflect on the last year in your journal, and then ideally to take a walk or a bath. Pulling out your calendar to jog your memory might be helpful. Then I suggest just softening your gaze back over the past year and responding to the prompts below. You can do this for the year in one sweep or take each season as I suggest below. The invitation here is to be responding to these prompts four times, beginning with the winter a year ago. (Could take you as long as an hour or so to complete . . . ) Significant milestones or intimate moments in your answers are all appropriate. I think you will find that specificity gives wonderful depth to the process.

For each of the seasons, Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall:

Describe a time that you experienced beauty.
In what way(s) were you the cause of something beautiful?

In what way(s) was a hard truth revealed to you?
In what way(s) did you reveal or speak a hard truth?

In what way(s) was a beautiful truth revealed to you?
In what way(s) did you reveal or speak a beautiful truth?

In what way(s) were you on the receiving end of goodness?
In what way(s) were you the cause of goodness?

Upon completion, give yourself a little time to let your responses settle in you. Take a walk or a bath, if you can, and take in the beauty, truth and goodness that you found when you put pen to page. You might want to capture some further reflections before moving into the fullness of your day or evening.

I’ll be posting my annual year end practice in December, which will give you an opportunity to look ahead and consider any reorientation, renewed commitments, or actions that all of this may inspire in you.

May we all find our way to contribute. May we all wage peace . . .

Warmly, Lyedie

Every morning you rise, I want you to remember this:
there are amazing things
to be a part of,
and fight for,
and feel,
because the world
will unlock hundreds
of doors when you
give this day
all the courage, love,
and intensity
you can.

Victoria Erickson (author, The Edge of wonder)

Photo credit goes to Gay Foster with gratitiude

Why Poetry is a Necessary Luxury

Good morning,

Lyedie here again from my blue chair.

The crocuses are bursting forth here in New England, and it has been about a year now since I launched The Longings Project. The irony of having chosen this year to dedicate myself to fulfillment of the personal and professional longings of women is not lost on me — I have to admit, there have been times when I heard a booming voice saying, "How dare you put the longings of women at the forefront!" 

Here is the thing I have to say to that booming voice. We can't have true fulfillment without longings. Longings are Point One on the trek to fulfillment. Point One is where we set our direction. When we skip over Point One, we easily set off on rudderless adventures, driven by the winds of necessity and other people's worn itineraries. That is why I dare.

Longings give us access to living life with the heart of the Lover. (One of four members of the archetypal Wisdom Council that I offered you a few weeks back in the Daily Activist's Log) Lover is the one who feels and who loves life. She gives us access to our emotional intelligence and to our playful nature. When the Lover isn't firmly in her seat at your council, life starts to lose color and texture.  Your feeling life recedes and the dry winds of 'shoulds' and 'what ifs' begin to pervade.  Some people report feeling as if they are just going through the motions, or that they feel lifeless, even dead inside — dreams remain untapped.

Longings are the sparks and tugs of the Lover.  Glimpses of the future breaking through into the present, calling us into the next chapter of our lives. Longings speak through our felt sense, the little details of life, the exquisite swelling of our heart, the tears welling up in our eyes. There are times that we can barely feel the spark and the tug of longing, and other times that unrequited longing is burning holes through our lives . . .

One of the languages of longing is poetry. We are living in a moment in time when our very language defends against matters of the heart. Poetry, as David Whyte suggests, is language that melts through this defense and gives us access to the territory of the heart. Often we are quick to jump to instruction manual language that tells how to do it faster, more efficiently, more effectively and we skip right past the poetry that makes it all worth while.

Poets re-acquaint us with the language of longing, inviting us to live closer to ourselves, to our loved ones, and to the mystery that gives rise to a meaningful life. Nayyirah Waheed whispers about the courage it takes to put longing first in a tiny poem that resounds in my heart.

flower work
is
not easy.
remaining
soft in fire
takes
time.
 

The poet Brooke MacNamara offers us an intimate glimpse into her response to the jug breaking political event of 2016 in her poem Upon Learning Donald Trump Has Been Elected POTUS, I Clean the House

Mold in the toilets must be scrubbed,
and my toddler’s spills demand my supplication.
I always hate the beginning of cleaning,
and the mess gets bigger
before what’s under begins to shine.
Some things must be discarded
but the little gifted sailboat mug
will be glued back together for my boy.
Now, head bowed
and crowned with earned beads of sweat,
I’m humming along and my husband
joins my effort. The bad news is:
unearthing, we don’t know what we’ll find.
The good news is: we don’t know what we’ll find.
My love, help me lift the weight
of the bed we’ve been sleeping in
so we can face what’s been collecting
under it in the dark. In the corner back there,
I see my lost heirloom ring - ring of my lineage -
has been resting against a dead fly

Mary Oliver slyly invites us to kneel down in the grass, even invites us to be idle and blessed, before she flings a heart-of-the-matter question right at us in her poem The Summer Day.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

One thing my life has taught me is that the greatest acts of courage are the small ones.  Like remaining soft in fire — Like saying 'no' to the news on occasion, and then saying 'yes' to poetry. Carving out time to spend with poetry has become a necessary luxury for me. Reading poetry invites the Lover to take her seat more firmly at the table of my Wisdom Council. It helps me to stay connected to not just what I care about, but to the full bodied felt sense of caring itself. 

Lately, I've been keeping a pile of poetry books beside my blue chair. Yesterday, in the quiet of the morning, I read an old favorite over again out loud to myself. Hearing Rilke's words become my own, and then reverberate in my kitchen gave strength to my resolve to hold fast to dreams, my own and yours.

You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything:
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of every step up.

So many live on and want nothing
and are raised to the rank of prince
by the slippery ease of their light judgments.

But what you love to see are faces
that so work and feel thirst....

You have not grown old, and it is not too late
to dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.

 Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. by Robert Bly

I urge you to make a place for Lover on your Wisdom Council, and to keep your favorite poets by your side.  Feel free to contact me if you'd like learn more about how I can assist you on your trek to fulfillment. 

Thank you for taking a little of your precious time to read this today. May we all have the courage to be open to the mystery in our every day, to put our strength in service of the good, and to celebrate the joys of fulfillment.

Dare to have your longings, and thanks again!

Lyedie

Saying, 'Yes'

God Says Yes to Me

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
what if I cavort with squawking saints
forage with a crowd of long legged water angels
sail with a regatta of white pelicans
sing glory hallelujah with the cormorants
drying their wings over the water
and she said Baby I made you for this
cavort as you wish
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

Poem by Kaylin Haught

Praise Song for the New Year

Click on this image to hear a recording of Praise Song for the Day

Praise Song for the Day                                                             

Each day we go about our business,

walking past each other, catching each other’s

eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is

noise and bramble, thorn and din, each

one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning

a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,

repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,

with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,

with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky.

A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words

spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,

words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark

the will of some one and then others, who said

I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road.

We need to find a place where we are safe.

We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.

Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,

who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built

brick by brick the glittering edifices

they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.

Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,

the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,

others by first do no harm or take no more

than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,

love that casts a widening pool of light,

love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,

any thing can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

 praise song for walking forward in that light.

                                                     by Elizabeth Alexander

Your waning energy can be a marvelous invitation . . .

Are you heading into mid-life and noticing that your energy levels seem to be waning? Noticing that you can’t just reach into that deep reserve of physical energy that used to be so readily available? This is a reality that most of us fight against. I certainly did!

But what I've found is that this ebb in energy is actually an invitation to step into a radically different efficiency. Once the reality becomes inescapable and we finally begin to turn our efforts away from recapturing lost youth and towards the future, a new vitality comes online. Many of us injure ourselves repeatedly, or get sick, before we recognize and accept this invitation. We humans have a tendency to move into grace kicking and screaming.

What does accepting this invitation mean in practical terms? First, it means admitting that there has been a dip in your energy levels. Once you get real with yourself, you can start caring for your physical body differently: adjusting diet and exercise, focusing on the body's brilliant design, its virtuosity. Start relying less on brawn. Then it means softening those youthful ambitions enough to listen for what is important to you now.   It involves actively downshifting and finding engagement in a deeper, wider sense of meaning that then provides you with an unassailable updraft.It’s not easy, especially at first. It is essential to your well being. It is after all an invitation into one of life's gnarly, necessary and marvelous transformations.

Making the most of the updraft involves developing the ability to attune to your body, reckoning with a natural sense of loss, and recalibrating to the needs of your spirit. It may lead you to courageously planning and implementing graceful exits and well-considered entrances. This is the work of transformation. It is not magic, though the results can seem magical. It requires being realistic, developing new strategies and garnering significant support. Contact me, I'm not offering you any quick fixes here (No 3 Keys or 10 Secrets) but I can help you accept the invitation of this natural ebb in energy and, using some of the latest intel, move into grace.

Your waning energy is an invitation to soften into a new productivity, to activate a radiant eldership. Turn towards your future and join the party. You will be in good company.

You see, I want a lot.

Perhaps I want everything:

the darkness that comes with every infinite fall

and the shivering blaze of every step up.

So many live on and want nothing

and are raised to the rank of prince

by the slippery ease of their light judgments

But what you love to see are faces

that do work and feel thirst . . .

You have not grown old, and it is not too late

to dive into your increasing depths

where life calmly gives out its own secret.

Rainer Maria Rilke, From The Book of Hours

An Ode to Productivity

To Be of Use
The people I love the best
jump into work head first

without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

 I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who stand in the line and haul in their places,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

 The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

 by Marge Piercy

Gratitude For the Life of Maya Angelou

This week Maya Angelou departed from this world for another . . . Thank you Maya, for having the courage to recover your voice in the midst of adversity and express such beauty, truth and goodness while you were here.

On The Pulse of the Morning

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers--
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.                                                                           

                              Maya Angelou (Written for the occasion of Bill Clinton's Inauguration in 1993)

Last Night I Was Sleeping

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

Antonio Machado