On Re-Sourcing

Around a couple of months ago, my soul started a whispering campaign: “Re-source yourself. Go away.” She spoke with the authority of dreams and in a tone and timbre that expressed gentle compassion for the fact that I had been thoroughly occupied —struggling even—with the business of just staying in my life. She knew that job and marriage and “news” * had been greedily snatching at my energy leaving little left for more than getting out of bed, getting into an office chair on time and getting something that can pass for dinner on the tv tray at night.

My soul bears patient witness and sends waves of compassion regarding all this, but still she says “you need to go away.”

I am actually trying to be more insightfully kind to myself. To pay attention and respond to my vivid assemblages of complexes and anxieties with curiosity and compassion instead of shame and self-castigation. I have gotten in the practice of asking on the regular: what is the kindest, most gentle thing you can do for yourself right now? What I call my “busy-blinders” work to obscure all manner of everyday magic as well as potential resources  at hand, so my best responses tend to orbit unimaginatively around baths, walks, and 10-minute savasana sessions on the yoga mat with Jack, my schnauzer mix’s butt in my face as he offers unrequested downward dog tutorials.

My soul said “those are all great, but you still need to go away. And before you start asking the husband which state park he’d like to try on your next weekend trip, let me be clear. You need to take a trip. You. By yourself. It should be for a good chunk of time too. What feels impossible? Two weeks? Shoot for that. Rest. Heal. Re-source. Keep yourself company. Go to the forest. The real one. How about the Pacific Northwest?" I kid you not. This is verbatim.

I barely heard her at first. The whisper was subtle but persistent. “You should figure this out. Go forest bathe like a wild woman.” Once it began to register consciously, I’d agree and then put it off: “Sigh. Yep, I sure do need that. Maybe in the spring. Or for my birthday next year. I’ll start saving soon.” After a while, when the voice whispered, I’d mutter internally “ok dear, sure.” My tone was that used when placating children. I had a job to get to, you see. I had Brooklyn Nine-Nine reruns to watch before bed. The whispers quieted.

But then.

I had had the good fortune to be able to workshop a proposal for a project I was ideating called Thirteen Cakes with a new doula friends’ theater company. Working with a sharp, insightful group of the company’s founding and core members (as well as a brilliant food colleague of mine) had been edifying and helpful. Inspiring. The proposal I submitted was stronger for having workshopped but after failing to secure the grant, life’s floodgates reopened and sent in waves that washed away creative motivation and momentum.

In a recent catch up call with my doula friend, she mentioned that she was still thinking of ways for the company to support Thirteen Cakes. What, she asked, would be the most helpful? Busy-blinders securely in place, I suggested something vague about feedback on drafts at some undefined point in the future.

“I was thinking of a sabbatical so you could just focus on your process.”

Board members and friends have vacations homes, apparently—particularly in the Seattle area where two of the company’s founding members live. In the space of several conversations, an idea has been transformed into program. I would be the inaugural recipient of the delightfully-named COCOONele Project Development Award.  The ideation sessions, networking, consulting, planning, and God knows what other logistical wrangling and behind-the-scenes work that went on in a few short weeks to make this reality humble and amaze me. 

I’m in a cottage on Camano Island, Washington, five days into a two week sabbatical to work on Thirteen Cakes and get curious about my process. Yesterday morning I hiked through old-growth forests and prayed to majestic Douglas firs, red cedars, and big-leaf maples amid sword ferns taller than me. This evening I will walk across the lane and soak my feet in the cool clear waters of the Salish Sea. My soul knew and she whispered this to me: “This is the kindest, gentlest thing you can do for yourself. The Universe and the sharp, insightful women of Nebunele Theater are your co-conspirators here. Go re-source!”

The project lives. I live. My heart is soaring like one of the bald eagles overhead.

There is more to share but I wanted to share this much, now. One, because of a need to assuage my guilt for not posting here for a few weeks. Two— much more importantly—because we’ve all got to do better at listening to our souls. Even if it seems nutty or impractical. This is urgent and important. They know stuff.

What has yours been telling you lately?

xx

*This term is semi-ironic shorthand for the assaultive onslaught of pinprick and sledgehammer signs of political and ecological collapse we are currently collectively fielding.