It takes only the sense that no matter where you are or what you are experiencing, you are in the presence of the Oneness that unifies all of us to be a mystic. If you aspire to spend each moment in wonder at and gratitude for everything you come into contact with, even the challenging and frightening things. You will experience life as a mystic.
“The sacred is always brimming from the heart of everything. If what it means to be a mystic is to walk through this world looking through the eyes of love, then anything and everything that we do with the intention and attention on the sacred, including our most difficult experiences, counts and belongs.” —Mirabai Starr
“Public mystics are leaders who embody the ineffable while attending to the ordinary, those who host the transcendent, the mystical, and the mundane while engaged in pragmatic justice-seeking acts.” —Barbara Holmes
As a practice, sit quietly and notice your breath. Send your roots down into the mycelial network and notice your connection to every being. Then stand and (if you’re not already outside) walk in nature, or if you’re in a city, walk noticing nature. And experience every being, sound, feeling, smell, or face as the manifestation of the Divine Oneness. Notice the wind on your skin, the scent of the forest or city street, and the sounds of birds, humans, and pets. Thank them all, and hold them in your heart with love, appreciation, and light.
This is the actual state of things. Our self-protective filters tend to distract us and help us forget this reality. In fact, no one, no matter how confused or cruel, doesn’t have this part of the Divine inside them somewhere.
By acknowledging, practicing, and spreading this reality, you become a light that reminds everyone, “Thy light is in ALL forms, thy love in ALL beings…”
This week, compelling writing and counsel have inspired me to consider deeply how we work with our sense of anger, despair, futility, and suffering in these extremely challenging times.
As we witness the imminent and ongoing compromise of our living planet and its beings, both human and more than human; as we watch our democracy purposely thrown into chaos by greed and fear; as we fear for the safety of those most vulnerable, the well of grief and fear cannot help but grow and crush on our ability to stay present and grounded.
We all know the need to acknowledge and be with our grieving. This poem from David Whyte says it well:
Those who will not slip beneath the still surface on the well of grief,
turning down through its black water to the place we cannot breathe,
will never know the source from which we drink, the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering, the small round coins, thrown by those who wished for something else.
I know that even with all the tools I have to practice surrender, acceptance, and presence, even with the underlying knowledge that the Divine Oneness is always there, even with knowing that the grace of love, compassion, and caring has never and will never dissipate… that deep, dark well of grief can be overwhelming and exhausting.
My dear friend Kathleen wrote about anger in her recent blog, I Lean Liminal. It was a good reminder that even though many of us have been traumatized into pushing that emotion away, it doesn’t ever really go away. Like the grief and despair we feel, anger must be acknowledged and processed to direct it toward more positive actions.
This week, in a spiritual companionship session, we discussed how a well of despair can become a dark, almost solid weight on our souls. It often manifests as a painful tightness throughout my body.
My dear friend and spiritual guide noticed that we take time for our meditation practice, our work or social justice actions, exercise, and time with our beloveds. But when do we actually dedicate time to simply allowing ourselves to weep, scream, pound the pillows, or express our pain in any committed way?
In that session, we tested this idea of micro-dosing despair. It was a profound release of tears, moans, shouts, curses, and halting breaths. Ultimately, I felt like every cell in my body had been opened, split apart, and cleansed, becoming a more brilliant light.
But there were some important learnings.
Don’t do this alone – have a trusted and capable friend or loved one to hold presence. They don’t have to say or fix anything; their simple presence might be enough. Or, if necessary, they might support you physically or with words of comfort if it becomes too intense. This could be a virtual companion, but better a three dimensional warm body.
Put boundaries around this practice – ensure you are in a safe place and that someone will keep you safe from self-harm, interruption, or simply going too deep into the intensity of your grief.
Have time boundaries as well. This is micro-dosing, so five or ten minutes might be all you need.
Make time for this regularly. It is not intended as a cure-all. If we are paying attention, those atrocities and sorrows will invade our hearts again. Keep doing all your other practices to stay present, grounded, and guided to the work that needs doing. But, if this resonates for you – micro-dose your despair as a cleansing practice as often as necessary and appropriate.
As Kathleen notes about anger – noticing, accepting, and surrendering to these emotions is vital to self-care. We must include robust, sustainable, and formidable tools if we hope to survive and remain resilient and effective in resisting these dark powers.
This is hard, my dear ones. But there have been and are even more challenging times. Together, we can and will make it through. May it be so.
As I come to the end of a beautiful retreat with our Peace Dance community from Canada, Europe, the U.S., and many Latin American beloveds, I am so deeply filled with love, compassion, light and hope.
These amazing, enthusiastic young leaders from the south are filled with a potent love, courage and guidance toward the unity and connection of all beings.
In the ever more discouraging and threatening atmosphere of our insane “leadership” these beloveds remind me there is hope.
And they fill me with the strength to continue to hold even the deepest, most unsettling dark powers in light.
It is certainly the most difficult of my practices to open the news, witness the latest onslaught of autocratic insanity and somehow integrate that into the light of the Only Being, recognizing it as somehow still a part of that Unity.
As Richard Rohr notes, “I suppose there is no more counterintuitive spiritual idea than the possibility that God might actually use and find necessary what we fear, avoid, deny, and deem unworthy. This is what I mean by the ‘integration of the negative.'”
The challenge for me, (and maybe you, dear reader will relate) is to, in some mysterious and often elusive way, remember there is no them and us. No separation from even the most distressing and disgusting manifestations of dark powers. These too must be accepted and surrendered to.
To quote Mirabai Starr, “I am continually challenged to stop arguing with reality and instead soften into what is. Over time, I learned to find beauty, meaning, and wholeness in the heart of reality. Unpredictable, ever-changing, humiliating, and humbling reality.”
The practice I suggest for us all, is to aspire to that source of strength and loving compassion. In meditation. deepen into a place of stillness, invoke and specifically pray for, the assistance and power of the ancestors.
Perhaps chant Alahho Akbar, which Sufi Ahmed Murshid Samuel Lewis taught means “Peace is Power.” Or hold another mantra of strength, courage and action on the breath.
From that place of grounded strength, imagine all those who are weilding those dark powers as surrounded in a brilliant white light.
There is little chance it will actually permeate their brittle, fear and greed induced armor and change their ways. But that is not our work or our goal.
It is for us to simply remember and let it go. And from that place of surrender to what is, to gather the strength and power from the benevolent ancestors; share it in our communities, and open our hearts to what we are called to do.
From that place, it has been my experience that the Divine will guide us to what service is ours and is needed in each moment.
So, set that intention. Invite and share guidance and assistance from your beloved community and ancestors. And remember with each breath to say thank you.
After last week’s post, a friend suggested that I write more from my heart instead of sharing others words all the time. I love the wisdom of my teachers so much that I often resonate with their words and want to share them here.
But for this blog, I will take her advice and talk more about stillness and silence and its importance in our lives.
I think of the verse in the Old Testament, “Be still and know that I am God,” a phrase from Psalm 46:10.
And the words of Jesus about praying in private so we can be in a place of listening to the divine, “But you, when you pray, go into your room, and when you have shut your door, pray to your Father who is in the secret place; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you openly” (Matthew 6:6)
In the words of Hazrat Inayat Khan, the Sufi master, “Through the silence of nature, I attain Thy divine peace. O sublime nature, in thy stillness let my heart rest”.
As a response to trauma, fear, and despair, which are endemic in our world, we tend to fill our lives with distractions: music, talking, news, TV shows, and movies. None of these things is terrible, but they can often distract us from that still, small voice.
What can we practice to remind ourselves to listen? What kinds of unnecessary things can we let go of or could be done much less to have time for silence?
I love this quote from Mirabai Starr, “The more you turn inward, the more available the sacred becomes. When you sit in. silence and turn your gaze toward the holy mystery you once called God, the mystery follows you back into the world. When you walk with a purposeful focus on breath and birdsong, your breathing and the twitter of the chickadee reveal themselves as miracles. .” (Mirabai Starr, Wild Mercy)
In her new book, Ordinary Mysticism, she discusses the importance of her morning practices. She notes that even though she absolutely doesn’t have time in her busy life, she still takes that time because it sets the tone and intention for the rest of the day.
I resonate with her words. Every morning, I also make an effort to spend time in gratitude, remember all my beloveds and my mycelial connection to the all in all, and aspire to a life dedicated to service. I pray part of a prayer that Hazrat Inayat Khan shared, “Use me for the purpose thy wisdom chooses.” and I chant the Hebrew word, Hineni (hee-nay-nee), which translates as “Here I am.”
One of my favorite practices is called Khilvat in the Sufi lexicon. It is an extended time of silent meditation, usually in a beautiful natural setting. I also find value in fasting during that practice. Removing all distractions, even talking and eating, is genuinely transcendent.
I deeply treasure a walking meditation to a place near my home, which I call my ‘Sit Spot.’ I share that space with tall trees, vibrant plants, animals, and a beautiful creek burbling, reminding me of the beauty of acceptance and surrender. Once, it generated a surrender poem about how the creek doesn’t need to go back, doesn’t want to go back, can’t go back, and neither can I.
Even in this spinning, intrusive culture, we can and must find every opportunity to be present in the stillness and the silence and listen for guidance from that still small voice. Holding that sense of silence on the breath, perhaps even noticing those brief moments of stillness between the in and out breaths, can be a practice of remembrance in every moment.
Knowing that stillness is indeed Divine creates an opportunity to truly be grounded and open to the light of guidance.
And when we infuse ourselves and our souls with that radiance, we can be a lamp in the darkness. We can radiate that light to all those who suffer and need to notice the stars sparkling in the dark night.
This is our work. That is why we arrived here at this time and place. Chief Arvol Lookinghorse, the chief of the Lakota/Dakota/Nakota tribes, said, “Know that you yourselves are essential to this world. Each of us is put here in this time and in this place to personally decide the future of humankind. Do you think you were put here for something less? Do you think that the creator would create unnecessary people in this time of terrible danger?”
Look into your own life. Consider what is getting in the way of your ability to spend time in stillness and silence. What distractions could you reduce or even let go of? See if you can set aside time, even if it’s only a few minutes, to be still and silent and hear that still, small voice.
As I was contemplating this blog post, drifting into an afternoon nap, the leaf blowers started up outside as they are wont to do. And I slipped into this poetry I share with all of you to end this post.
Intimate Silence
I had a dream…
All the leaf blowers wound down to silence.
All the cars and trucks, motorcycles, and work vans – every vehicle slowly pulled to the curb and turned off. And none of them ever started again.
Airplanes, helicopters, and drones – landed safely, shut down and would never start again.
All weapons ceased to work. Even tools like knives, spades, axes – if raised in violence crumbled to dust.
Motorized tools of all kinds stopped and wouldn’t start again.
Amplifiers and microphones failed.
And finally…
When every noise making invention of the crazy human animals fell silent…
In the intimate, sacred stillness A sabbath rest, A potent dark seed trembling…
Everyone, everywhere, human and more than human Took a long, deep breath Let out a relieved and grateful sigh…
And then…
The singing began.
Of course, the birds started it. Then other creatures took up the song. The stars, clouds, moon, and sun smiled and tapped out the rhythm of day and night. The oceans and rivers filled the low end with gurgles and tides. The animals contributed their beautiful melodies.
There is much beauty and value in noticing and embracing the times between the parts of our lives. One can experience this in meditation by spending time between the in and out breaths and genuinely feeling what that place of silence and stillness holds for us.
My friends Tovah and Ted of the Anokhi Institute sent out the following beautiful essay last week. They offer many classes and events relating to mystic practice. I can’t recommend them highly enough.
We mark a new year, yet still in the peak of the darkness and quiet of the winter season. A time of transition and introspection.
Life’s most transformative moments often occur in these spaces between—between the end of one chapter and the beginning of the next. This in-between space can feel unsettling, even disorienting, as we are suspended in a place where the familiar has faded and the new is not yet formed.
This pause, however, is sacred. It is a liminal space—a threshold where deep reflection and inner transformation can occur. Just as the soil lies fallow in winter to prepare for spring’s growth, we, too, need these periods of stillness to process, reflect, and envision. The pause between what was and what will be is a gift, though it may not always feel like one. It is here, in the quiet, that clarity and inspiration often emerge.
Embrace this quiet space as an invitation to slow down and listen. What do you hear when the noise of doing subsides? What truths emerge when there is nothing to distract you? This pause allows us to step outside the momentum of our habits and reflect deeply on the unfolding of our lives. It is a time to ask profound questions: What do I truly value? What seeds am I planting for springtime sprouting? What am I being called to nurture at this time?
The in-between can also be a time for recalibration. Transitioning from one season to the next, one year to the next, can unsettle our routines, habits, and patterns, offering a chance to realign with our deeper selves. By embracing this quiet time, we give ourselves the spaciousness to imagine new possibilities. It is here, in this fertile void, that our own inner genius inspires us to envision what could be.
At its heart, this pause reminds us of the quiet power of stillness. Even when no outward signs of change are visible, transformation is unfolding beneath the surface, preparing us for new possibilities. Like seeds germinating in the darkness of the soil, the changes we are readying ourselves for are often invisible until the right moment to emerge. This requires patience—a willingness to let go of control and allow life to unfold in its natural rhythm.
However, the in-between space can also bring discomfort. Uncertainty, doubt, and even fear may surface as we navigate the unknown. These feelings are natural, and they, too, carry wisdom. Discomfort invites us to explore the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what we need. It asks us to trust that we are capable of meeting the mystery of the moment, even without all the answers.
Discomfort, while challenging, can also be a catalyst for transformation. By leaning into it with curiosity rather than resistance, we may discover insights and inner resources we didn’t know we had.
Takeaway Practice:
Dedicate time each day to sit quietly and reflect on the in-between. Light a candle or create a ritual to mark this pause. Ask yourself:
What seeds of transformation am I planting in this pause?
What possibilities or inspirations are quietly emerging within me?
Allow the answers to arise organically, trusting that clarity will come in its own time.
[With gratitude to dear Sufi sister Tarana who posted the stories below recently on her Facebook feed]
A most poignant and important message in these challenging times is to remember to notice the many teachers we are gifted with in each moment. It is said that the Hindu elephant god Ganesh, as well as being a clearer of obstacles may also choose to gift us with the obstacles and trials that will enhance our understanding of our place and work in this precious life.
Dear sister Tarana shared the following that I pass on to you as a perfect example of this profound truth.
One of the great Sufi Masters, Junaid, was asked this when he was dying. His chief disciple came close to him and asked, Master, you are leaving us. One question has always been in our minds butwe could never gather courage enough to ask you. Who was your Master? This has been a great curiosity among your disciples because we have never heard you talk about your Master.
Junaid opened his eyes and said, It will be very difficult for me to answer because I have learned from almost everybody. The whole existence has been my Master. I have learned from every event that has happened in my life. And I am grateful to all that has happened, because out of all that learning I have arrived.
Junaid said, Just to satisfy your curiosity I will give you three instances.
Dog and the Begging Bowl
Once, I was very thirsty and I was going towards the river carrying my begging bowl, the only possession I had. When I reached the river a dog rushed, jumped into the river, started drinking.
I watched for a moment and threw away my begging bowl, because it is useless. A dog can do without it. I also jumped into the river, drank as much water as I wanted. My whole body was cool because I had jumped into the river. I sat in the river for a few moments, thanked the dog, touched his feet with deep reverence because he had taught me a lesson.
I had dropped everything, all possessions, but there was a certain clinging to my begging bowl. It was a beautiful bowl, very beautifully carved, and I was always aware that somebody might steal it. Even in the night I used to put it under my head as a pillow so nobody could snatch it away. That was my last clinging-the dog helped. It was so clear: if a dog can manage without a begging bowl, I am a man, why can’t I manage? That dog was one of my Masters.
The Patient Thief
Secondly, he continued, I lost my way in a forest and by the time I reached the nearest village that I could find, it was midnight. Everybody was fast asleep. I wandered all over the town to see if I could find somebody awake to give me shelter for the night, until finally I found one man. I asked him, It seems only two persons are awake in the town, you and I. Can you give me shelter for the night?
The man said, I can see from your gown that you are a Sufi monk. [The word Sufi comes from the word ‘suf’ which means wool, a woolen garment. The Sufis have used the woolen garment for centuries; hence they are called Sufis because of their garment.] The man said, I can see you are a Sufi and I feel a little embarrassed to take you to my home. I am perfectly willing, but I must tell you who I am. I am a thief. Would you like to be a guest of a thief?
For a moment, I hesitated. The thief said, Look, it is better I told you. You seem hesitant. The thief is willing but the mystic seems to be hesitant to enter into the house of a thief, as if the mystic is weaker than the thief. In fact, I should be afraid of you. You may change me, You may transform my whole life! Inviting you means danger, but I am not afraid. You are welcome. Come to my home. Eat, drink, go to sleep, and stay as long as you want, because I live alone and my earning is enough. I can manage for two persons. And it will be really beautiful to chit-chat with you of great things. But you seem to be hesitant?
And then I became aware that it was true. I asked to be forgiven. I touched the feet of the thief and said, Yes, my rootedness in my own being is yet very weak. You are really a strong man and I would like to come to your home. And I would like to stay a little longer, not only for this night. I want to be stronger myself!
The thief said, Come on! He fed the Sufi, gave him something to drink, helped him to prepare for sleep and he said, Now I will go. I have to do my own thing. I will come back early in the morning. Early in the morning the thief came back. Junnaid asked, Have you been successful?The thief said, No, not today, but I will see tomorrow.
And this happened continuously, for thirty days: every night the thief went out, and every morning he came back empty-handed. But he was never sad, never frustrated–no sign of failure on his face, always happy –and he would say, It doesn’t matter. I tried my best. I could not find anything today again, but tomorrow I will try. And, God willing, it can happen tomorrow if it has not happened today.
After one month I left, and for years I tried to realize the ultimate, and it was always a failure. But each time I decided to drop the whole project I remembered the thief, his smiling face and his saying, God willing, what has not happened today may happen tomorrow.
Junaid said, I remembered the thief as one of my greatest Masters. Without him I would not be what I am.
The Lit Candle
And third, he said, I entered into a small village. A little boy was carrying a lit candle, obviously going to the small temple of the town to put the candle there for the night.
And Junaid asked, Can you tell me from where the light comes? You have lighted the candle yourself so you must have seen. What is the source of light?
The boy laughed and he said, Wait! And he blew out the candle in front of Junaid. And he said, You have seen the light go. Can you tell me where it has gone? If you can tell me where it has gone I will tell you from where it has come, because it has gone to the same place. It has returned to the source.
And Junaid said, I had met great philosophers but nobody had made such a beautiful statement: It has gone to its very source.
Everything returns to its source finally.
Moreover, the child made me aware of my own ignorance. I was trying to joke with the child, but the joke was on me. He showed me that asking foolish questions like from where has the light come is not intelligent. It comes from nowhere, from nothingness, and it goes back to nowhere, to nothingness.
Junaid said, I touched the feet of the child. The child was puzzled. He said, Why you are touching my feet? And I told him, You are my Master–you have shown me something. You have given me a great lesson, a great insight. Since that time, Junaid said, I have been meditating on nothingness and slowly, slowly I have entered into nothingness. And now the final moment has come when the candle will go out, the light will go out. And I know where I am going – to the same source. I remember that child with gratefulness. I can still see him standing before me, blowing out the candle.
No situation is without a lesson, no situation at all.
In our hemisphere and our culture, the new year has begun. You, like me, might feel a mixture of trepidation and even despair, along with the hope and faith that is taught to us by the only true scripture, the scripture of nature (from the 3rd of the ten Sufi thoughts by Hazrat Inayat Khan – “There is One Holy Book, the sacred manuscript of nature, the only scripture which can enlighten the reader.”).
As ordinary mystics, as Mirabai Starr teaches us in her new book, we hold that balance, acknowledging both the sorrow and the joy. And we remember that we live in mystery where the future is unknown, and the past is gone. We breathe gratitude, hope, and our willingness to serve with every new inhalation and breathe out our fears, giving them to the earth that will hold, heal, compost, and recycle them as medicine and sustenance. Inshallah.
The following poem comes from one of the ascended ones of our time, Sophie Strand. Her poetry reminds us again to stay soft and open and to be in radical acceptance and surrender. May it be so.
I wanted to share this magnificent piece written by Sabura, the widow of Wali Ali, one of the first students of Murshid Samuel Lewis (aka Sufi Sam), the founder of the Ruhaniat Sufi order. It was shared this week on our Sufi teachers mailing list. It is said that Sam’s favorite hymn for this time of year was “Oh Holy Night.”
It is quiet on this Christmas Eve. The sky is night-ringed, scattered with stars and the light of a cold, waning moon. I’m thinking of Christmases past, of how Wali loved to sing along, unapologetically off tune, to all the Christmas carols, his joy and heart the real music. He often shared stories of caroling around the neighborhood at the Mentorgarten with Murshid Sam and the gladness in it. ‘O Holy Night’ was a carol he particularly liked for the lines,
Fall on your knees Hear the angel voices.
Putting the potency of his deep voice and body into the music, he’d stand in our kitchen here at 410 and sing out those two lines when the time came for them, a la Murshid Sam who, he said, indicated that one should heed the imperative and actually fall on one’s knees. I have a remarkable image etched in memory of my large and lovely husband falling heavily to his knees in the kitchen doorway, face upturned, arms outstretched, half-joking, half-serious, as the music played. For the merest of moments the walls receded and we were all gazing through the mystery of an angelic, heart-strewn sky.
I have often thought back to this somatic directive. The pliable, bending knee as sacred portal, ancient meniscal doorway ushering us into intimate contact with the receiving earth, its textures and radiance, its damp, fragrant, life-giving support, meeting us halfway, as we fall, as we fall into the sublime humus of our own being.
“Fall” and “hear” in their simultaneity invite the beautiful implication that surrender is not an act of will, not something ‘we’ do but rather the Beloved’s response to the grace of who we are. We precede ourselves.
Those of us navigating our own private winters know this. And the body as cathedral in which one imagines that the sob or sigh that issues forth in falling to one’s knees…as the angel voices themselves, their incandescence and beauty no less than the humble recognition of our own holy pathos. That moment our deepest suffering makes contact with God’s deepest nature and knowing the two as one hints at the terrible, tangible magnificence that is the Beloved.
Fall on your knees Hear the angel voices
May the receiving earth find its numinous way to each one of us this season and beyond.
In this spinning, hectic life it is sometimes hard to even imagine slowing down enough to experience anything like stillness.
And yet, nearly all spiritual paths teach about the importance of precious moments in contemplation.
In fact, until we allow ourselves to quiet the mind and settle into the silence, it can be nearly impossible to listen to and learn from that still small voice of the Divine.
And it is from that guidance that we can learn faith, patience and hope.
“Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead and later proves to be alive.”
– Pablo Neruda
Let’s stop for one second,’ wrote Pablo Neruda in his poem A Callarse, which is translated as Keeping Quiet or Keeping Still. The poem is a manifesto for the very personal and very political act of doing nothing. In it, he imagined a world that stops to catch its breath for a moment, in the way that much of the planet is currently on hiatus from the hum of its usual activity, and he pondered the ‘sudden strangeness’ that would emerge. A beautiful and touching poem about the sadness of ‘never understanding ourselves’ and how simply stopping and listening to the silence might bring us together with a new kind of wisdom.
Keeping Quiet
And now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still.
For once on the face of the earth let’s not speak in any language, let’s stop for one second, and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines, we would all be together in a sudden strangeness.
Fisherman in the cold sea would not harm whales and the man gathering salt would not look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire, victory with no survivors, would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing.
What I want should not be confused with total inactivity. Life is what it is about, I want no truck with death.
If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead and later proves to be alive.
Now I’ll count up to twelve, and you keep quiet and I will go.
It seems these days that the most compelling and front-and-center lessons are all about radical acceptance and surrender. That has certainly shown up more often in this blog over the last few weeks and months.
I’ve experienced times when the world seems to have flipped over or isn’t recognizable.
The day my mother died, I remember standing in the airport after rushing home from a conference on the news that she was dying. I had just learned that she passed while I was flying home. I stood there in the Arrival pick up, weeping uncontrollably. Attracting some stares and one person who asked if she could help.
As I looked at all the traffic and all the people, I couldn’t believe they were still going about their lives as usual. How did they not recognize that the world had just disintegrated and been pieced back together in strange, unfamiliar ways?
I have had similar experiences after other great losses. The most recent one was on the morning of November 6th, when I woke up to hear that a majority of my fellow citizens had decided we needed an autocratic felon and disruptor to be our next president.
That event has undoubtedly led to this ongoing need to consider surrender and radical acceptance.
So, when I was sent this video of a speech by the remarkable and wise Brene Brown, I decided I wanted to share it here.
Let It End, Let It Hurt, Let It Heal, Let It Go: Embrace the Power of Moving On BRENE BROWN SPEECH
