Hello Autumn [E-Newsletter 9/27/2016]


Set aside an hour to write.

Sometimes it helps to be in a neutral space: Take yourself to a coffee shop or to a bench at a park. Write about yourself as though you are writing about a character in a book or in a TV show. Not “I enjoy fall afternoons” but “she enjoys fall afternoons.” Start where you are: Start from scratch.

She is 31. She wears her straight brown hair up, twirled around and spiked through with a hair pin she kept from her mom. Her voice is a soothing melody and her laugh a pleasure to hear. The corner of her eyes crinkle when she smiles in a way that will deepen into lines. She wears a blend of colors and flowing clothing. A gold watch spans her wrist and a blue-green pashmina typically wraps her neck, drapes her shoulders or, as the Autumn wind creeps through the air, covers her torso. She walks proud and erect, the picture of a confident female. And the majority of the time she is: Confident. (And female.) And yet, there are shadows. When she allows her mind to run away with the worst case scenario. When anxiety creeps in. When she worries there will always be suffering. (And she knows there always will be.) Anger flares when someone intentionally harms or manipulates another. Frustration, when patience is needed.

Black coffee, a blank page, a meditative yoga practice, book stores, writing, a glass of wine, perusing the aisle of a health food store – introspection, lists, research. This is her medicine.

She is 31. She is a reinvention. A renovation. A… reconstruction. In her old life she thought husband and kids were the key to happiness. In her renovation, she took the path less traveled: Pursuing her passion, opening a studio, teaching and learning, promoting self-discovery, love, acceptance. She is a night owl, yet loves the dawning of a new day. If only for a fresh excuse for a cup of coffee. She is in love with a soldier, a man with a deployment date; she is afraid of breaking when he leaves. Afraid of being weak and dependent, and so she holds herself together. Afraid of breaking before it happens, and so she holds herself together. Afraid of the crashing wave of reality, of a battlefield she’ll never understand. And so she holds herself together, and she waits. She waits to be broken and she prepares her structure, her foundation, her support.

She is turning 32.