Musings

Not so long ago I had the pleasure of watching the movie Rango. And was struck by the need for a sense of community in order to thrive.

It used to be that families (and large extended families) provided that place of purpose, of belonging, where you fit in. In our current Western culture, families have become fragmented rather than cohesive. Now our sense of community tends to come from circles of friends, church, sports teams, hobby groups, work associations. While sometimes we are fortunate and truly do have a sense of community–of belonging–in these places, often times they are simply activities that fill up our days and weeks—not necessarily ourselves.

In the movie, the character Rango doesn’t ‘come into his own’ until he saves the day for the community of which he has become a part. Come to think of it, the plot very much follows the ‘hero’s quest’ formula. The hero has a personal struggle to overcome to see what he is really made of. Only then can a difference be made for the whole group as well as the individuals.

With my own learning experience regarding ‘being there,’ this sense of community has come back to roost in my mind a few times. Those of us who have been hurt during our formative years sometimes have a harder time engaging with other people. We have come to understand in the core of our being that this is just not safe. Interacting with people invariably leads to pain of some sort. How sad that this is true for so many.

I have recently embarked on a journey of my own to seek out community—a place of belonging. While there are many factors at play—including my introverted personality—it has been a stretching (and dare I say it, healing) experience for me. It has also been agonizing. Yes, pain has also been a part of this journey. Sometimes I wonder how things would be different if I hadn’t stepped out of my comfort zone of introversion and isolation a time or two. Would I feel safer? Less exposed? Less pain? Likely yes to all of those. But I also would not have known the beauty of others ‘being there’ for me. Comforting me in my sorrow. Sharing in my confusion. Commiserating with my suffering.

I have a ways to go yet. Some days are definitely more difficult than others. Some are more isolating than others. Will I morph into an extrovert who wants to be around people all the time? Hardly. I still need my solitude to recharge and regroup. However, I am learning that sometimes it is worth taking risks. Usually an agonizing decision process to take the risk, but in the end, no critical harm has befallen me so far. Some mental anguish maybe, but that is usually of my own doing, my own thought processes messing with me.

Have I found my community—my place of belonging? No yet. But as I search—and keep myself open to engaging with other people—I have hope that maybe one day I will. In the meantime, I have cultivated some amazing friendships and gotten to know people better I otherwise would have let pass by. And that would be a crying shame. There are wonderful people out there. Just takes a bit of savvy as well as openness to find them.

May your heart and mind be open to connections that might otherwise be missed, expanding your sense of belonging, so that you can truly flourish.

Grief is one of those desert places where our hearts are broken wide open
and tears flow across the parched places in our souls.
~ Christine Valters Paintner

Hard to believe it is nearly a month since my dog passed away. It feels like forever and like it happened yesterday—all at the same time. There is a big gaping hole where she used to be. The time of her illness went by so quickly. In some respects, it feels like I have passed through a time warp, a worm hole, of some sort. And, of course, when we encounter a loss of a loved one, other losses come flooding back. We are reminded of other gaping holes. Some that have closed over, others with just a thin covering. These lost attachments are grieved once again along with the latest loss.

I was particularly touched by the quote above while reading about using the Celtic elements of water, wind, earth, and fire in meditation. In the book, it is in the context of the fire of purification that grief is addressed. While I don’t necessarily feel purified at the moment, I certainly can relate to feeling parched. And broken wide open. So I can attest that yes, being broken wide open exposes the parched, desert places. If we follow through with this analogy, does that mean that the tears will eventually generate fertile soil?

There’s an exercise. Look back over past grieving experiences to discover the fertile places that have begun producing lush vegetation. In my retrospection, it appears some of my vegetation is more scraggly than verdant; but I do have to acknowledge that past losses do not feel like parched, desert places forever. Even if the vegetation is sparse in the aftermath, it is still evidence of growth. Granted some of those desert places have been there a long time. If left unattended, does the desert take over? Or, as in some microclimates, does the vegetation? Sadly, I have more evidence of the former.

I suspect it has something to do with my reticence to be broken open—and allow the tears—or comfort of any kind—to flow over the parched places. It would be an interesting study to consider the times I hold back the tears and the times I allow myself an ‘ugly cry.’ Does healing truly come when we open ourselves to the torrential downpour of grief? When our anguish floods the parched plains? Sometimes it feels so dry, the moisture evaporates as soon as it escapes. What then? Are we bound to be parched forever?

That’s a miserable thought. I certainly do not want to be parched forever. Hence, if I am to glean anything from these musings, it would appear I need to be broken open for healing to have an opportunity. Now that’s a scary thought. Being broken open can mean any number of things. I guess that is a risk I am going to have to take if I want to give healing a fighting chance at flooding my parched places.

Maybe in time, when I look back at this time of grieving, I will be able to see growth where once was an arid vacuum. I wonder what kind of growth I will see? And will it be scraggly, hanging on for dear life; or will it be lush, taking over the desert places?

May your times of parched places be flooded with comfort and healing in order to generate fertile soil for growth and renewal.

My dog is dying of cancer. That is not normally how I would open a blog entry, but it is uppermost on my mind these days. This may be her last week. Someday, maybe I will be able to share all that I have learned through this experience. For now, one key lesson it was important for me to be taught is that it takes a team of people to ‘be there’ for a person. No single person can ever completely ‘be there’ for another—it is physically impossible.

I learned this the hard way when one vet simply could not always be there when my dog had a crisis. It took more than one vet to address her needs—and mine. It also took a very kind team of support staff to deal with me both before and after vet visits. If it were not for all these people working together, it would have been a totally different experience.

I imagine it would have been much more isolating. As it happened, it was a connective experience instead. Which had its own challenges given my tendency to withdraw or shut down when overwhelmed. This connective experience broadens once I include the network of kind and caring people surrounding me—some whom I hardly knew, others that became even stronger friendships, and others tried and true at supporting me.

Sometimes the support came in physical form—hugs and personal presence. Other times it was virtual through the web of social media (Facebook and email). Either way, words of compassion were expressed and received. As these last days with my dog approach, I am confident in the knowledge that I will not go through it alone. The webbing of support already around me will hold me up when I least expect it. I am finding, even sharing this with you now, to be a release of sorts. Eventually the grief will lesson, life will return to a routine—albeit a different one—and the days will gradually find a rhythm to soothe the dull ache.

I am even hopeful that the cavernous hole left behind will eventually close over. It has been exposed and raw for a while now, but I know from experience it will not stay that way forever. It may not close over the way I would like; but if I do not allow it to, it will consume me—preventing me from experiencing rays of hope and those little surprises that make life special. I will also have to make a conscious effort to allow others into that cavernous hole if I am ever to find healing. That in itself is terrifying, but something tells me it will be worth the risk.

If there is a second key lesson I have learned, it is that people can ‘shine’ when you least expect it. Opening one’s heart to receive care and compassion is terrifying to those who have been burned in the past. However, if we paint all people with the same brush, we miss out on the healing experience of connecting with other people who are also familiar with pain. To allow people to be with me in my pain is a new and frightening experience. It will take baby steps—and only a special few will be allowed a peek into my cavernous hole, but I’m already seeing that being open has its benefits as well as its risks. With great pain can come great joy. I’ll let you know when my joy returns.

In the meantime, I hope I can ‘be there’ for the people that cross my path—professionally or personally—as well as the vast team of people have ‘been there’ for me these past two and half months. That alone has had a profound effect upon openness—knowing it takes a team. If one person can’t ‘be there’, I know there are others waiting in the wings.

May you experience the presence of another ‘being there’ for you that you in turn can ‘be there’ for others. And if the one you expect to ‘be there’ is unable to, look around—there may be someone just waiting for the opportunity to shine for you.

This year has begun with challenges from a variety of sources creating an inner (and outer) sense of chaos for me. I’ve recently realized this has been complicated by an interruption in routine for me—those daily events we count on to give a sense of normalcy in our lives.

It is these very routines that can get us through crises of varying intensities—from the death of a loved one to minor irritations at work. When we follow through with what we know, what we can count on, it provides us with a retreat of sorts from those situations that are exhausting our resources at coping. We can be replenished in a way by doing those mundane tasks that have to get done regardless of what else is happening in our lives. We must get up in the morning, brush our teeth, get dressed, walk pets, prepare meals, consume food and beverages, perform required tasks at work or home, commute, chauffeur family members around, and the list goes on.

We get into a daily, weekly, monthly, yearly rhythm that gives shape and meaning to our lives. We know what is expected of us, what must be done at any given moment in the day. When this rhythm is interrupted, it can throw off our sense of equilibrium (that all is right with the world). Toss in an unexpected crisis or two, and the threat to our equilibrium, our sense of balance, is intensified. If the crisis itself affects our routine, the crisis may seem insurmountable. The coping skills we normally rely on may be insufficient to the task. Sleep may elude us. Nourishment depleted due to a diminished appetite. Hobbies and activities may not hold our attention long enough to distract us, even briefly. Our concentration may be broken. Even basic tasks can seem overwhelming. In the midst of this chaos, how do we manage?

The old adage, to keep putting one foot in front of the other, may be of use. Help might be found in tightening our focus to those tasks, those routines that are not interrupted. There are always things that have to be done. Such as getting out of bed, performing morning ablutions, getting dressed, literally putting one foot in front of the other, consuming food and beverages. If an injury has interrupted even these basic tasks, adjustments have to be made to get back into routine—reclaim a sense of normalcy. If the absence of a family member due to death or departure has impacted these routines, refocusing efforts and re-establishing basic routines will help to regain one’s sense of balance—albeit shaky at first.

And it could be worth our while to spend some time considering what all surfaces for us while in that state of chaos—of disequilibrium. Are there internalized messages that need review? Do we need to pay attention to some long submerged emotion or belief? Does our range of coping strategies need a tune up—finding healthier ones to replace harmful ones? Would it be better to engage rather than withdraw? Or spend time alone rather than be distracted by caring for others?

Of course, there are always risks to trying out new thoughts and behaviours. Some of our attempts may be met with disappointment, disapproval, or discomfort. It may take a few tries before we make the adjustment with the most benefits. But isn’t that what life is about? The Chinese symbol for crisis, after all, encompasses both danger and opportunity.

What routines do you rely on to get through tough times? What risks are you willing to take to move forward through chaos? You never know what lies just around the next corner.

A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.
~Catherine the Great

Wind is a mysterious element, isn’t it? Began mulling about that in the wee hours this morning as the wind howled up a storm, pummeling against the side of the house.

Some people find this sound comforting knowing they are snuggled safe and warm inside their cozy homes. Others find the sound haunting and disturbing, knowing the world will look different when they awake.

As I waited for the wind to abate a bit, it crossed my mind that wind takes on many diverse meanings—sometimes simultaneously—contributing to wind’s mysterious nature. Take the Chinook for example. The word Chinook means ‘snow eater’ and a true Chinook wind will do just that—eat up all the snow exposing bare ground—which is advantageous for foraging animals, but confusing to plant life which can die off if they start their spring re-growth prematurely and are taken off guard by the next severe snow storm.

People tend to appreciate Chinooks as they provide a break from the harshness of winter. The more Chinooks, the milder the winter. However, the stronger the Chinook, the more damage caused by the strong winds. You may not have to shovel your driveway as often; but you may have other troubles such as torn siding, broken windows from flying debris, and the like. So a wind that can bring comfort can also bring harm.

Same for the cold, blustery winds. They may bring frigid air and biting wind chill; but often they also bring moisture which the land needs for sustenance. As well, the cold temperatures keep the rhythm of life in check. Animals stay burrowed. Plants stay dormant. And the foraging animals know how to keep sustained even in extreme conditions. They have their sources.

Come summer, winds can waft in as refreshing breezes, or bluster through with sand and dirt chasing its heels, or interfere in our plans in one way or another. We can welcome wind, or curse in the direction from whence it came. At any rate, wind carries with it the message of change. The world will somehow be different once the winds settle down or blow on their way.

So what does the wind mean for you? Does it represent the rhythms of natural life? Or the mysterious presence of the Spiritual Other? Is it a reminder of the ever-changing nature of our lives? Much like we do with the wind, we can either fight against what is or work with what blows our way. The wind can remind us to pause in our day to reflect upon the rhythms of life, our spiritual needs, our response to change; or even to welcome and embrace refreshment, uplifting moments, the breath of life, or the comforts of hearth and home.

As we begin another New Year in the midst of winter, may the winds that blow offer comfort and solace, as well as remind us to boldly endure and to marvel at the mysteries of Life.

The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.
~William Arthur Ward

Christmas is weird. What other time of year do you sit in front of a dead tree and eat candy out of socks?
~ Crabby Road

Christmas is a time of mixed emotions for many people. The season can be associated with pain and suffering as well as joy and good cheer. Some years can be filled with more of one than another. Our hopes and expectations can be dashed with a single phone call or a misspoken word—or can be exceeded beyond measure by a gesture—grand or small.

Christmas can also be a time when feuds are set aside for at least a day to celebrate whatever it is this time of year means for people: family, good food, gift exchanges, caroling, Saint Nick to Santa Claus, the Nativity Story. The list is endless of what Christmas signifies to people as well as the symbols that surround that meaning.

Symbols both generate their own significance as well as contribute to a grander meaning.  Symbols also change over time. What once held positive memories can later have negative associations. Traditions (those rituals we hold so dear because they hold special meaning) can also lose their import and be replaced by more current ones. When we get stuck in symbols or traditions that lose their meaning, the holidays can take on a drudgery that conflicts with the overall message of goodwill.

Symbols can also mean different things to different people that can be far different than the original. Take the Christmas tree for example. While its origins are difficult to pin down, the general idea is that it represents the tree of life and is associated with the Christ child. Most of us probably think of other things when we look at our beautifully decorated trees—such as fond memories of our childhoods, anticipating looks of delight as gifts are exchanged, remembering moments prompted by a glance upon a special ornament. It might be worth a moment of meditation to reflect upon the tree as a symbol of eternal life—hope for the hereafter—or even the continuity of life represented in the greenery as well as the family traditions passed down through the years.

Christmas can be a time of connection unparalleled by any other time of the year. There is something about the lights, the sparkle, the reminders of a break from the usual. For that really is the root of Christmas—a celebration of the winter solstice—the shortest/darkest day of the year is behind us and the days can only get longer and brighter. Christmas began as a religious alternative to the popular festivities to mark this significant time of year. Sometimes it seems we have come full circle. Christmas is once again a popular diversion for the masses. Any spiritual significance to the holiday must be consciously noted—even with all the nativity plays, services, and caroling. It just becomes empty tradition after a while. Not that there isn’t joy to be found there; but if these long held traditions and symbols are to have any personal meaning, it is worth a moment or two to actually think about what this time of year represents for you.

I have found it is also worth considering those empty traditions and symbols—or the ones that now have negative associations—to replace them with fresh ones. That action itself can signify the renewal inherent in the season. For spring is coming when once again light will flood the land. This may be a season of darkness—in more ways than one for some—but the Light is coming. The darkness will not last forever.

May your Christmas season be filled with hope and renewal as we transition from darkness into light.

A while back I had an unusual moment of enlightenment out walking with my dog. Now, I often have ‘a-ha’ moments while out with my faithful companion as I let my mind wander and ruminate on whatever catches its fancy. However, this time was different as I was attempting to communicate with my dog.

Since moving to a different community and exploring new routes for the proverbial “morning constitutional,” we have had the pleasure of meeting fellow, regular dog walkers. One in particular has become a favourite—for both the person and the pet. As our busy lives interfere with maintaining a schedule executed with military precision, it is not possible to meet on a consistent, daily basis. So some mornings I feel compelled to inform my dog, “Nobody’s here.”

I don’t know what makes me think my dog can’t come to the same conclusion as I have given the same data: no familiar vehicle in the parking lot, no person of significance to be sighted, no whiff of that certain canine BFF. In my role as caregiver, I think I must communicate to her that her friends are not in the vicinity—it will be ‘just us’ this morning. Sure, her hopes are up as we climb the small hill to the park; but she assesses the situation just as well as I do. I suspect the difference is she can make the better adjustment to disappointment. At least some days. There have been mornings when she will linger at the top, alert for any hint that her friends will appear, before descending back into our subdivision.

Unlike many humans, dogs have an uncanny ability to ‘roll with the punches,’ ‘go with the flow,’ make the most of ‘what is.’ They live in the moment. And when the moment has passed, there’s always hope for another one around the next bend. So when I inform my dog that “Nobody’s here,” what does she do? Keep on the lookout for “Nobody.” The phrase, “Nobody’s here,” to my canine companion means that somebody named Nobody has arrived—which is exciting news indeed. Try and correct that impression when in fact the very opposite is true.

This revelation prompted thoughts about other statements that make no sense to a dog’s way of thinking. My dog can respond to many ‘affirmative’ instructions including come, stop, wait, sit, look, find. Conversely, negative instructions are not in her vocabulary. She cannot comprehend how ‘not’ to do something. She is incapable of ‘not jumping’ or ‘not running off;’ but she can ‘stay down’ and ‘stay close.’ This realization made me think of how we speak to other dependents in our lives.

We spend a lot of energy informing children of what they are not supposed to do: jump on the couch, pull the dog’s tail, pinch their brother or sister, throw food, yell, etc. However, the child is usually so engaged in what they were doing that they fail to come up with alternative behaviours on their own. Hence, the predictable, and perpetual, cycle of ‘negative enforcement’ ensues—the undesired behaviour continues while the caregiver gets frustrated giving the same ‘negative’ command.

What if we were to take a lesson from the pet world? Instead of constant negative commands, we intercept the undesired behaviour with a redirection—tell the child what to do rather than what not to do—maybe even participate with them for a few minutes. The alternate behaviour is reinforced with positive attention; and the inappropriate behaviour is stopped without engaging in the negative cycle.

Maybe I will have to try this with more than the dependents in my life. What would happen if I made a conscious choice to communicate with others in this manner? State what I want rather than what I don’t want. If you join me in this experiment, let me know how it goes.

May you experience improved communication within your circles of interaction—inspired by a creature focused on connection and living in the moment. Happy trails!

After last month’s blog entry, I had the pleasure to head out into the woods with two of my favourite people and my dog—and make my own attempts at distracting myself with a mild form of meditation. In basic terms, it can be described as paying attention to (and appreciating) my surroundings. Another word for it is mindfulness. I’ve used this word before. It is also part of the broad art of meditation.

As I type this, I am looking at a photo my husband took of me sitting in the creek focusing on the sights and sounds all around me. Of course he didn’t know that I was doing anything in particular; he was simply taking a picture of his wife perched on a large rock in the shallow, soothing creek. He also captured a brief video of this moment; and so, I can relive the moment to a certain extent. Somehow it just isn’t the same, but it is a good reminder.

In that moment of being immersed in nature, I recall there being nothing to worry about. I allowed the rush of the little creek (amazing what sound can be produced from such a small amount of water in motion) to drown out all thoughts but those of the creek, the canyon, the trees, and the trail. The sights of the towering canyon blotted out intruding visions of tasks, and lists, and stuff of everyday life. The wind in the trees sighed a little louder than my own. The earth’s own aroma of life in its natural cycle kept the sights and sounds fresh and alive—gave them power to supersede all other thought. And for that moment, there was nothing to worry about. My mind had a break from its normal rush and roar. My spirit was replenished.

Now of course one cannot stay perched on a large rock in a soothing creek forever. Life will go on—with or without me. However, I am grateful for the moment of reprieve—and this secondary one being able to relive it in some fashion. It also calls to me to do that again. What I find the greater challenge is making time for mini-breaks in the midst of everyday life. It is one thing to go off into the wilderness on the occasional weekend. It is quite another to incorporate meditation or mindfulness into routine.

I can do this in two ways. One of which is to take breaks of solitude and focus on sights, sounds, or smells that soothe. The other is be fully present in any given moment. I find this takes a bit more discipline, but others may find this easier than setting aside solitude time. As I type this and think about being fully present, I take note of the sound my computer makes as my fingers “fly across the keyboard.” I hear the quiet drone of the main computer in the room. The silence of the rest of the house becomes ‘louder’ in the stillness. If I listen more closely, I would eventually hear the hum of the refrigerator or the whirr of the furnace fan. Just now, my slippers brushed against the legs of the chair as I switched positions. Glancing out the window, I can see fall colours highlighted by the late afternoon sun. I think it is too early for the sun to start its descent into evening, but such is part of autumn. As I focus my attention outside, the sounds of vehicles become evident. People are returning home from work. The day is shifting to evening activities.

Even now, I am amazed at how effective that little exercise was at calming my hurried brain intent on completing yet another task. My breathing has slowed. My attention shifted. However, I must return my focus to the task at hand in order to start another one: supper preparation.

Thank you for sharing this moment with me. May you find the perfect spot in your day to slow down to be fully present or stop altogether for quiet meditation.

“We walk in circles, so limited by our own anxieties that we can no longer distinguish between true and false, between the gangster’s whim and the purest ideal” ~ Ingrid Bergman

Have you ever caught yourself thinking into ever-narrowing circles? Seems like you are going over and over the same material in your mind? If only you could find that one thread that could unravel the rope and swing you in the right direction? When I find myself in this predicament, I have yet to ‘get somewhere’ with my thinking. Rather the effect seems to be passing over the same path so often, I have dug myself a trench.

Reminds me of oxen tethered to a pole who are moving interminably forward in a circle as they tread grain. However, when we get ourselves worked into circles, the result is not life-preserving nourishment. I find I am drained of energy with even fewer resources to find a resolution to my problem.

So what’s to be done? Well, for one, we have to stop ourselves from going over and over the same material. We can ask ourselves, how is this helping? Usually we will find it’s not. It’s just getting ourselves worked up. So we can tell ourselves to stop it, this is not helping. And we can take a break. Most issues that get us riled up are not the ones that require immediate action. They are longstanding. We’ve been around the block a few times already with them. So take a break from thinking about it. Distract yourself by becoming immersed in something else—a hobby or chore that needs to get done.

Obviously we can’t ignore our problems indefinitely. Well, some of us try, but they usually find a way back into our everyday lives. Sometimes talking to someone else can provide the fresh perspective we’re looking for. On the other hand, our circle of confidants may be so tired of our circling thoughts that they don’t want to hear another word on the subject.

Here are some options. Meditation. Clearing our minds and focusing on something else can provide the calm mental environment the mind needs to come up with a solution. If you are not familiar with this practice, try joining a meditative yoga class or taking individual yoga lessons.

Reading. It is likely that someone else has experienced what you are going through and has written about it. Browse the bookstores or do a subject search at your local library to find resources to read about how others have handled a similar situation.

Dialogue. If your situation involves another person, depending on the circumstance, it may be helpful to ask for their input. There are obvious risks to this option, but if you approach the other person with curiosity rather than confrontation—inviting their input—it may not escalate into a yelling match. You might actually be heard by the other person if you make a gesture to hear their perspective.

What have you attempted to break the cycle of circling thoughts? Anything you’d like to share?

Curiosity will conquer fear even more than bravery will.
~ James Stephens

This thing about curiosity and fear came home for me while travelling recently. I have a love-hate relationship with bears. I admire and greatly respect these marvelous creatures; but I am terrified of them. Even though I have been arming myself with information to counter the baseless fears —and they are baseless, for I personally have never had a negative encounter with a bear—I am still prone to anxiety and panic attacks when I even suspect I might be in the vicinity of a member of the Ursus family.

Somehow I have bought into the belief that bears are dangerous and ‘out to get me’ when really they couldn’t care less about my existence—except for certain circumstances that make total sense—like interfering with their food source (i.e. trails along berry patches), or getting into their personal space, or too close to their offspring. People aren’t so different. We don’t do so well either when people or animals mess with our food, our personal space, or our dependants (be they children or pets).

In one of those twists of paradox, communication break-downs among people are common and expected. For some reason, we have higher expectations of inter-special communication and greatly resent when the animal kingdom impinges upon people-dom. We think drastic measures have to be taken to get our point across—even though some basic prevention—i.e. communication about boundaries—would have done the trick.

Bears are quite clear about boundary crossings. They send messages that are often misunderstood as aggression, when really, it’s about ‘get out of my space.’ Usually because we missed the subtler signs. People are no different. We miss the signs all the time. Or we are not very clear and let things get out of hand until ‘somebody blows.’

So even though I have gleaned plenty of useful, practical knowledge about safe bear-people interactions, the fear persists. To use the curious approach to address my fear, it then begs the question: Where did this irrational fear come from? Even more importantly, what does this fear say about me? Do I want to keep believing that about myself? Or do I want to start thinking in terms of empowering myself to handle tense situations rather than elicit the flight response—for running is not always the best option.

To be curious, gives me time to think things through rather than spiral out of control. And with bears, there is time to think—particularly when I stop to listen to what they are communicating in their language. In this case, knowledge is power. I can use that knowledge to defuse the threat. For often there is no threat—just an imaginative mind on overdrive.

So being curious about my fear of bears, is really about getting curious about myself. And being patient with myself as I unlearn the old beliefs and relearn new coping skills. I won’t get it ‘just right’ with my next bear encounter—but I will get better—building on each experience until one day I will ask myself, What bear phobia? Experience has taught me that much already.

What fear might you tackle next with curiosity? Bears may not be on your horizon, but how about public speaking? Or crowded rooms? Or a sensitive discussion that needs to happen? How might getting curious about your anxiety help you to move forward?

What beliefs are lurking in your closet that could use some exposure—or airing out—with a healthy dose of curiosity?