104 Feeds a Child for a Year
Embodied Intimacy, Transformative Inquiry, Creative Emergence
I was working with a great coach almost two years ago, who seriously challenged the way I was thinking about caring, giving and being of service. We were talking about love, and how we care for ourselves and for each other. In our dialogue we were exploring the ancient habitual patterns that prevent us from taking good care of ourselves, so that we can be of real benefit to the people around us. I told him that in India and a lot of other cultures, the women serve the food and then stand and wait while everyone else eats what they have prepared. Only after everyone has eaten, do they sit down and eat.
I never really liked watching this whole scenario-there was something repugnant to me about it. So I was quite unnerved when my coach invited me to consider that I was behaving in a similar way in parts of my own life. "Well maybe," I told him, "and I think there are times when that kind of sacrifice is appropriate. For example, when a mother has to care for a child. If she doesn't have enough food, she will have to feed her child first."
"I disagree," said my coach, whose name is Jason. "A starving mother is no good at all to her child. She has to feed herself first, or the child will have no mother."
"You remind me of those announcements on the airplane," I told him, "telling us to put our oxygen mask on first, before we try to help our children."
"Exactly," he said, "It's basic common sense. Each one of us has to learn how to feed ourselves first, on all levels. It's part of becoming a fully functioning human being."
Our conversation really got to me. It became what I sometimes call a 'life changing conversation'. I was so happy that Jason had challenged me so deeply. I couldn't stop wondering, inquiring into what feeding ourselves first actually looks like, in the context of our very complex and demanding human lives.
The next time I was sitting with six of my closest women friends, I offered this question into our circle. "If we really need to learn how to feed ourselves first," I asked them, "then how do we do that? What does that really mean? Where do we begin?"
A woman in our circle offered us the most beautiful, simple answer. "For me," she said, "it begins with morning practice. With prayer, or meditation, or inquiry, or contemplation. Or just sitting and listening deeply."
I realized when I heard her that this sacred, quiet time in the morning has been part of my life for a long time. It's whatever I do to connect to my deepest self, to what is the most important thing for me, to the heart of my life. If I take the time to do that, I nourish the roots of my being, and my whole day is different. Without that, I'm running on empty, skittering along on the surface of my life. I've lost my connection to my depths.
This time of being quiet is for me, the most fundamental way in which we can feed ourselves first. I would not consider depriving myself of this time – it feels almost as essential as breathing. When we went around the circle however, many of the women expressed how difficult it is for them to create this kind of time to practice, to simply be with themselves this way each morning. I was quite surprised to discover this. Since then I have spoken with hundreds of people who have told me a similar story. Either they can't seem to find that precious time each morning, or they don't know what to do when they sit down with themselves.
I think this reflects something that is quite askew in our culture. We haven't given enough attention to the importance of this. We are rushing around madly, consumed in our busyness. We talk to each other constantly about the pressures we feel, the overwhelm. But we don't really understand that everyone needs this open unstructured space each day, a private sanctuary. And that this is non-negotiable. Even if it's not in the morning, we need it at some point during the day. In Sweden they call this your 'smultronstalle'*, your wild strawberry patch. It's your refuge, the space inside you where you can relax so deeply that you let go of all that is usually on your mind. Where you can begin to feel things you didn't allow yourself to feel. Where you can open to the questions that live at the centre of your life. It's a space where you receive love, energy, clarity, inspiration and a connection to a much bigger field of existence.
It's a beautiful thing to create a spot where you sit in your home. But the real place is not a physical spot. Your wild strawberry patch has no earthly location. It lives and blooms in another realm, where those strawberries never die.
I've worked with a lot of people who just can't let go when they sit down with themselves. It feels like torture to be with their mind, undistracted and naked. This is just another indication of the same thing – a whole culture that is revved up, living in the sympathetic nervous system, the energy of flight, fight or freeze.
Your wild strawberry patch, your refuge, is where you can learn to let your whole nervous system unwind, bit by bit. With help, with guidance and support, you can allow it to settle right down.
Until you can really rest. This kind of deep rest, is not sleep. It is presence, radiant and awake. It will give you more than you can imagine. You can be starving for this rest, without even knowing it. And I think many of us do know it. A dear friend wrote me just this morning, " I feel life calling me to stop pushing, to relax, to let go."
Sometimes go outside and sit
In the evening at sunset,
When there's a slight breeze that touches your body,
And makes the leaves and trees move gently.
You're not trying to do anything really.
You're simply allowing yourself to be,
Very open from deep within,
Without holding onto anything whatsoever.
with love
Shayla
*thanks for this to Rob Brezny.
Source: http://wideawakeheart.net/lifeletter-104-feed-first/
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