Start where you are

I haven’t written in a while—all of the month of April, I now see—and here we are. I don’t wish I had done it, or regret not doing it, or anything. It just is what it is; it was what it was. And that makes it right.

I got quite sick during that time, the sickest I’ve ever been, at the end of which one friend reflected back to that I sounded so “raw,” that the whole experience sounded so raw. It was, in so many ways. And I am so grateful for my health, so grateful to be better. I also had my family in town for a week after that, which did wonders for my recovery and was so nice. Really so nice. It was the first time in a long time we were all able to be somewhere together (their lovely Airbnb) for a stretch of time and just enjoy each other’s company and being together. I miss having them here. And I am so grateful they were able to come. I also went to Coachella, and Napa, and said goodbye to my long-time manager at work and started on a new team and am preparing for a big move (it’s all already happening, as they say, as I’d say, as I remind myself) and a departure, a leave, from things as I know them right now. I am excited, it feels right, and it is all still a process. A process that sometimes calls for stillness, and other times calls for action, like selling and giving away almost everything I own: a literal practice in letting go.

I wanted to write here tonight and I didn’t know what to write, even with all the drafts saved here, even with all the notes in my phone like, “Live the width of your life,” which Bozoma Saint John shared in a talk at Google for International Women’s Day. Start where you are, came the quiet reminder. Yes, that. Start where you are, and right now, I am right here. Writing this, and letting it be it.

Leave room

I drafted this post in my head, and a little bit on here, before leaving for a ~2.5-week trip that I returned from on Sunday night. (But, instead, I left myself some room, and more time for sleep, that last night.)

I prefer to carry on when I travel and usually end up packing my bag to the max. It makes repacking during the trip a challenge, because I’m never repacking with as much time or care as that first time—I’d rather be spending my vacation time doing anything else, everything else. It also means I have no space, really, to pick up anything along the way. This time, as I was finishing packing, I made a conscious choice to leave some room.

It’s in keeping with a larger theme of wanting to of create and leave more room in my life these days. Like, leaving room in my days—giving myself more time, rushing less, and, ideally, not at all—and recently going through my whole apartment to consolidate and organize my belongings. (Outer organization equaled inner, mental organization, and was nice to return to@)

Someone I know used to say, “leave room for surprise,” often, and I like that. Leave room, and space, for the unexpected, because we never know what it’ll be. This time, this trip, it was a bunch of cute, functional and sentimental bachelorette gifts, like a monogrammed bucket hat, and some bigger things, like the dirndl I bought in Munich for Oktoberfest and thought would be a whatever purchase before finding a trendy one (it’s a thing) that was a point of pride, because it ended up eliciting compliments from Germans. I did have to sit on my suitcase to close it that last day, what with all those layers of Bavarian ruffle, but I did have the room!

Do one less thing / Do one more thing

I think there is often a sweet little duality in life where we’re meant to learn one side of a lesson in one moment, and in the next, the other side.

For example, my time has been more occupied than usual, than feels like equilibrium, lately. And that’s OK, because it’s temporary, and mostly because of a very fun trip, two-week trip with close friends I have at the end of this week. I find myself trending toward over-programming, to trying to do more, to pushing too much. So, instead, I keep saying to myself, and committing to myself: Do one less thing. Take off this layer, give some space, let that go.

In other moments, like times when I’ve felt stuck, or it’s felt hard to move, or do, and I know I want to, that it would be good for me, it’s a simple as: Do one more thing. Like, do this one thing.

Do one less thing (exhale).

Do one more thing (inhale).

It's also this

I recently completed reiki level 1 training and have now added that to my morning routine, which is already lengthy (meditation, reiki, journal, light yoga flow/stretch session), and also which I love and feels supportive and fun. Yesterday after I finished, I noticed the thought pop up: “OK, now my day starts.”

And I was like, wait. My day has already started. That was part of my day, and this is all part of my day. My day is not just work, turning on a computer, plugging into the “productive” side of society. (Also, rest is “productive.”) It’s also this, and this is also mine.

That slight reframe, a soft zoom out, felt so nice as soon as I noticed it. Even in the past day, it’s already helped give me more perspective with myself (or, helped me give myself more perspective, you know!) in relation to work, and my job. It’s part of my day, and it’s part of my life, yes. And there’s so much more. The same could be, can be, said for any role and any identity we hold, too.

I remembered the thought again when I was biking home from Pilates later that day. I was waiting at a traffic light, eager to push out and pedal home, and looked around. I came to present on that corner, under the palm trees, in the summer nightfall. This moment was also my day—and my evening—my life. And it was a beautiful one, and I wanted to be with it.

It’s also this. It’s all of this.

Sierra's pace

Back when I was marathon training, I shared some runs long runs, medium runs and stops under the Venice sign with my friend Sierra, who I met through Venice Run Club. I loved her energy, grit, spirit and sweetness (still do!). She, as a seasoned competitor, helped me prepare for a lot of the not-just-running parts of race prep, like logistics with fueling (“You need to bring water on these long runs!”) and being with it, better with it, even when it felt hard. (“Just don’t think about it,” she said on that infamous 18-mile run day in 88 degree heat under the open sun. We cried in gratitude looking out at the ocean along Manhattan Beach, and also probably from delirium. We made it.)

One Wednesday a few weeks before the marathon, we set out on our weekly 4.5-mile group loop. Everyone was clicking their smart watches and Strava apps on to start, timing it all, calculating. I saw her start and called out, “What pace are you going today?” to see if we’d run together. She turned back and smiled, responding across a few rows of people. “Sierra’s pace!” she said, shrugging her shoulders and continuing to run. Which meant, whatever felt right that day, in that moment, for her. Sierra’s pace. We say it often now, as do others who heard her response that night and, like me, loved it. Sierra’s pace. Your pace. Whatever that is.

For Sierra, who runs, swims, bikes, rests, resets and lives her own way, at her own pace, through life.

If it's never enough, then it's always enough

I used to be an “inbox zero” person. I felt the compulsive need to clear my emails every day, the red bubbles a constant reminder of what I was missing, didn’t do, needed to do, the lack.

I got so tired. I was doing this, it felt like, in every aspect of life. It was never enough; it couldn’t end, it wouldn’t end. And then I realized, I decided, I didn’t want to do it anymore. And the choice had been mine the whole time. To decide what was enough, and when was enough. Because if it was never enough, then it was also always enough. It was all for me for to decide. And it’s also yours.

(More than a year into turning off red notification bubbles, opting out when it feels most supportive, unsubscribing from many emails and doing large-scale deletes, it really feels so good, and I highly recommend it. I recently cleared out 150 emails, mostly newsletters I just wasn’t going to get to, and I had so much more mental clarity afterward. I decided I’m OK with what’s left unread.")

Do one less thing

Sometimes I think life is a rotation between the two sides of the same advice coin, a back-and-forth flip that is sometimes quick, like both in one day, and, other times, we’re on the same side for some time. Before, it was Do this one thing. Right now, it’s: Do one less thing.

Do one less thing, make one less plan, make one choice less, say one less thing, deliberate one time less. There’s a peace that comes in granting that, I’ve found. A space for settling, and for something to naturally shift.

Let yourself have this

This phrase of invitation, allowance and permission often comes to me when I first sit for meditation. I tend to fidget, wanting to find the “perfect” seat (reminding myself that “perfect,” is always; perfect is what we create, what we allow to be), something probably related to a pattern in our capitalistic society of wanting to, feeling like we need to, Always. Optimize. Everything. (Anyway!)

“Let yourself have this,” I find myself guiding myself in response. Just let yourself have this time to be in this moment, this meditation. Let yourself have this, whatever is pulling, whatever is presenting. If it is a slower week, if you’re desiring more rest, if you find something seemingly silly and nonsensical to be bringing you joy, or something feels good and makes this easier. (Like, I recently got a fidget toy to help me focus when I’m working!) Let yourself have it! You deserve it, all of it.

So, let yourself have this, too. Slowness, stillness, a burst of energy and excitement, or some other gift of emotion coursing through. Let yourself have minutes to space out and dream, to visit memories, other places in your mind and create other realities and timelines. Let yourself have this, whatever it is.