Live an authentic life you love
While doing my yoga practice this morning I was reminded of these wise and powerful words from Yoga with Adriene:
“Keep what makes you happy. Let go of what doesn’t serve you.”
If the Great Pause of 2020 has taught us anything, I believe it’s exactly that.
That as a result of having to slow down and sit with our own ‘stuff,’ we learned — very quickly — what did and didn’t work for us.
And what didn’t.
Have you ever heard the saying: the seeds you sow, grow? Or Tony Robbins’ version “energy flows where your focus goes?”
While some people may think all this energy talk is a bit woo-woo, I believe in it whole-heartedly.
In my experience the more I focus on the things that light me up — really acknowledge them and feel grateful for them — the more they expand and grow.
I’ll admit it. I’m not a very patient person at times. In my defense, I come by it honestly. It’s in my Scottish no-nonsense genes.
So a few weeks ago, when I struggled to get clear on my next steps in business (and in life) I was feeling pretty aggravated.
I kept thinking…
But clarity was not listening.
And that really annoyed me.
Because I’m usually fairly intuitive. And as long as I’m paying attention, my inner GPS usually guides me quickly to my next right step.
So having to wait for my intuition to speak up was kind of new for me. Feeling like I was suddenly out of touch with it altogether was a whole new ball game.
I felt stuck.
And felt like the long, dark days were closing in on you?
If so, you’re not alone.
I live in Vancouver, and while we don’t get a lot of snow in the winter, we do get our fair share of cold, grey, rainy days.
Every January or February I get hit by the winter doldrums. And my mood begins to feel as grey as our weather.
I want to climb under a big, warm comforter. And stay there.
Forever.
I once heard grief is like a thumbprint. That no two are alike.
Now, more than ever, I really get that.
After losing my mother a few months ago, I began my own roller coaster ride of grief.
Sometimes I felt terribly sad. That she, my one and only mother, had permanently left this world.
I didn’t care that she was almost 92. And had lived a long life. She was still my mother. And she was gone. Forever.
How could that possibly be? It shocked me to my core. And hurt like hell.
Today I took a magical walk with a sea otter.
I was out on the seawall in the a light spring rain thinking about my mother. Contemplating what was going to happen to her.
My son and I had gone to see her in the care facility she was living. We were shocked by the rapid decline she’d made since our last visit.
Her face looked gaunt and hollow. Her body frail and weak. Her skin ever so pale and delicate.
Deep down some part of me knew that she was finally giving up the fight.