So I’m taking this class through my dear buddy at Educare Unlearning Institute, and well. Suffice it to say, it’s been the best ass-kicking that my heart and soul so desperately needed. It was the right time for me to dive back into radical self-care, and this has been the deep dive I needed. In our last class, we talked about meditation practices. We practiced several of them over the course of the weekend together, and I decided to continue the practice afterwards. After all, meditating for one weekend every quarter is only going to take me so far.
Before the birth of my first little person, I was pretty committed to a morning ritual. I did “morning pages” or journaling, most always outside, for as long as my Soul wanted to write + listen + write. I would breathe, start my day with intentional quiet space, and it was magical. I’m pretty sure I drank warm cups of tea and wrote with nice Staedtler pens that all had functioning tips. And though my intention has been to get back to that, I just haven’t. I’ve tried guilting and shaming myself into doing it again, which turns out wasn’t the right approach for me. I couldn’t find my way back to that sacred, nurturing, peaceful, quiet space in my mornings, and so I just didn’t do anything. All or nothing. Hours of peace or no peace. No peace, literally.
I remember growing up, I would often find my mama in the mornings reading her bible. She would be in the front room of our house, still in her pajamas, reading. Writing. Taking time to nurture her heart and soul, before she nurtured me and my big brother’s hearts and souls. Sometimes I would snuggle down on the sofa next to her, cozy down under a blanket and enjoy the quiet before the day began. I remember she had a cup of coffee, and her hair was a mess, and I remember that she prioritized her soul readiness before anything else.
These days my morning ritual doesn’t include lengthy stretches of time in any contemplative practice. It’s not 90 minutes or an hour, or really, any specific amount of time. But there is time. I climb out of my bed and onto my yoga bolster. I put one hand on my heart, and one on my belly, and I just breathe. Sometimes I count my breaths, other times I just breathe, seeing if I can find the very top of my lungs, if I can find the softness in my belly. Sometimes the tears roll down my cheeks in gratitude for the small gift I’m giving myself, other times I struggle to stay present and can barely count to ‘2’ before my mind is wandering somewhere. Sometimes I read an entry in a meditation book, other times I offer a few sun salutes to the day ahead. Sometimes my littlest sits on the bolster with me and I hold her as I breathe. I wonder if she’ll remember those quiet mornings with mama.
There is time. There is peace.
Rooting and Rising 