As I’m writing this, the rain is pouring outside, which is much needed here in California. I was driving home earlier and many of the roads were closed due to flooding, fields became lakes, tops of vineyards poked through the surface of the water.
And this came after one of the driest times in our history–a drought that a lot of people wondered if we’d ever recover from.
As I sit here with the rain, I think about how there’s a natural order to things. There’s a natural balance that unfolds over time. Mama Earth holds a wisdom greater than us.
Part of that magic is that we are all made of earth stuff (and star stuff!). This wisdom is in our bodies. And even when not outside, we are connected to the magic of the earth. The keyboard I’m typing on, the chair I’m sitting on, the pen that’s next to me, all comes from the earth.
When we feel disconnected, needing some love, it’s a gift that we can ground and reconnect to the creative force that’s all around us.
Feel your feet on the ground.
Feel your body expand with breath.
Feel your fingers hold your pen or press the keys.
Remember they are all made of earth.
When we connect, we come back into the moment, and we consciously connect to that natural rhythm of nature. In this space, we can trust deeply that there’s a deeper healing going on, an evolutionary intention taking place.When dry, the rain will come. When flooded, the sun will come.Click To Tweet
Just as we go through our natural cycles in our lives, we are connected to bigger cycles of the cosmos.
For me, this comes as a huge relief. Because when I remember, I surrender.
We can relax into those moments. Trust that everything will be okay, is okay, will always be okay.
When we are creating something, we tap into this natural creative energy. It’s who we are, it’s of the earth.
Our job is to trust the process. To explore what wants to come through. To let go of control. We are taken care of and what we need next will always come.
Now to leave you with a poem that wanted to be here:
From An April
Again the woods smell sweet.
The soaring larks lift up with them
the sky, which weighed so heavily on our shoulders;
through bare branches one still saw the day standing empty —
but after long rain-filled afternoons
come the golden sun-drenched
before which, on distant housefronts,
all the wounded
windows flee fearful with beating wings.
Then it goes still. Even the rain runs softer
over the stones’ quietly darkening glow.
All noises slip entirely away
into the brushwood’s glimmering buds.
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