This one practice: holding space for love, has changed my life.
What do I mean by holding space for love? I mean deliberately taking time to look around and witness the presence of Love in my life and in the world. A Love that is (always) rising and blooming and bubbling into the world.
This does not mean that I ignore what is happening in the news of the world; rather, it means that when I witness the heartbreak, the outrage, the upheaval in the daily headlines, I am witnessing it from the balanced center of truth that there is OTHER news, also unfolding in the world.
It means that no matter what happens, I AM able to take a firm and clear stand inside of myself - because I have practiced doing so. It means that I am able to turn to the people in those stories with compassion and an open heart. That my heart does not close toward them - just because it is incessant, never ending suffering in the world.
It means that I hold inside of my own mind, my own heart and my own body, that the headlines are but a blip in what is ALSO happening. It means that I am taking a stand to be an access point for that Love - that my heart does not clamp down, my mind does not turn away, my body can metabolize the fear that rises in me when another headline of pain and grief and terror imposes itself on my space and time. It means that I can stay open - even in the wave of pain and grief. It means that Love can move through me - that love can dance and sing and pour through me.
The more access points for love and beauty and compassion and generosity, the more love can flow. Don’t shut down. Don’t go numb. Stay awake. Stay aware. Stand with Love.
A seed is taking hold in the soil, a breakthrough is beginning in a laboratory, a family is whispering goodbye to a grandmother, a grandfather, a beloved friend.
A child is being born in a hospital, in a refugee camp, in a bedroom and someone is remembering something that will change the course of his life.
Today, guided by my daughter, we are moving the furniture again. There must be a way to get this right. Today, in the side garden, the tomato plant is maintaining one plump green fruit. It hangs precariously over the ground. How does that slender stem support all of that weight? Biting into a fat yellow tomato from the farm, I’m glad that it does.
Today, where a white tent has been placed beside the barn, children, wearing masks, will be delivered for a full day of fresh air, summer care. They’ll arrive soon, chattering and calling to friends. Watching their arrival parade from this window in my living room has become part of my morning routine. One of the joys of quarantine, for me, was the slowing down - the noticing and listening. Without the demand of having to be anywhere, do anything, show up for someone, my body quieted down so fully that I could finally, thoroughly be here.
Today, ocean waves are still tumbling to the shore and
today, the sun is still making its way across the sky and
today, the leaves are still on the trees. Holding on to the wide stem that feeds them until, in a month or so, they’ll let go, and flutter to the ground.
Today, my daughter walked through the living room just now, smiling.
At the end of this week, she will climb into her van and drive back across the country to the city she now calls home.
But today, she is here and making toast.
Today, somewhere, people are dancing.
Somewhere, a woman is singing.
Somewhere, a man is weeping.
As a baby is latching onto a breast.
Today, by the window, I end this post, eager to join my daughter for breakfast.
I would love to hear from you. What is happening where you are?
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