On being grounded

Three invitations as we move through these anxious days

After an anxiety attack, a strange phenomenon washes over and through the body.

It’s as though all of the pent up energy and outrage, disconnection and overwhelm, are suddenly gone. All that is left is an eerie peace, like the calm after a storm.

The day after my own inner hurricane, I moved through my home slowly, making sense of the aftermath, apologizing to my husband for the heart-messes I made, apologizing to myself for pushing my limits so hard and for so long.

I’d done it again. Overcommitted. Overextended. Neglecting my body’s felt need to live life settled, present, in place, feet on the ground.

Twenty.

That’s the number of round-trip flights I’ve taken over the past ten months. As I finished counting the flight receipts, I was shocked. No wonder my body lost her way. No wonder I couldn’t slow the spinning of my thought life. No wonder there had been no time or space to breathe, to connect, to grieve, to create. No wonder. The anxiety attack was a sort of culmination of all that had been suppressed for the sake of “good work.”

I’d done it again. You can take the girl out of places defined by anxious striving. It’s much harder to take the anxious striving out of the girl.

There is an upside to reaching one’s edge and falling flat on your face. It is there that all bets are off. The reality of your limitations are clear. New healing pathways are opened as you see your life, your patterns, and your habits for what they truly are. Anything is possible here. The very best becomes possible in this place.

I’m now two weeks into a personally-enforced “no-fly” season. I will not leave the ground for at least the next two months, and hopefully more. This year is teaching me that being grounded, being placed, being at home and in the rhythms of daily life with my loves, with the land, and in community are vital for my flourishing. I knew this in my head; I’ve blogged about it extensively. But the past few weeks have reminded me of it in my body and in my soul. For this, I’m grateful.

What does it mean to be grounded?

What does it mean to be and feel at home when forces bigger than any of us are making their mark on the world? What does it mean to find rootedness and rest as we await election results? What does it mean to be present, engaged, and awake to right here, right now?

I do not have all of the answers, but I have stumbled into a few simple awarenesses that have been supportive. I’m offering them here as a point of reflection and consideration for you. Take what helps; leave what does not.

One—Let it all fall apart.
When you’ve been running a million miles per minute, tending to your work, your partnerships, your children, your country, it’s reasonable to bump into your limits. It’s reasonable to be overwhelmed. It’s reasonable to feel at your wit’s end. The only real issue is pretending to be okay when you’re not okay. When I experienced an anxiety attack a few weeks ago, what I realized on the other side of it was that my body had been giving me signs for a while: an inability to sleep, focus, or dream deeply about my work. I had no margin to attend to the relational tensions in my life. My mind wouldn’t stop racing, pointing to the fact that I was operating just beyond the edges of my capacity. It was unsustainable. I wonder how the past few months may have gone differently had I made room to let it fall apart sooner. This is vulnerable and not at all easy, especially when real responsibilities rest on your shoulders. But if there’s one thing life is teaching me, over and over again, it’s that there are no shortcuts. If we do not take a break, our bodies/minds/souls will choose when to take the break for us. What other choice do we have? Let it fall apart in small moments and in small ways so that you don’t need a big wake-up call to get your attention.

Two—Let it all slow down.

Another challenge that emerges when leading an overextended, way-too-fast life is that once things finally do begin slowing, and once you do reclaim margin, there can be a resistance to letting yourself deeply experience the slowness. There can be a sort of addictive attachment to the hustle and stress. Externally, this looks like continuing to approach every task or project with urgency, even when there are no true time constraints on the work that’s in front of you. There can be the sense that all of items on your to-do list need to be completed right now. Such urgency often gives way to scattered thinking and an inability to prioritize. It can feel like being on a hamster wheel, running fast to nowhere because you’re not tuned into the slower pace of the present moment.

Internally, the resistance slowing often manifests as voices and feelings of shame, self-judgment and criticism. In my experience, it’s tough to let life slow down because on some level I believe I should be doing more. I believe I haven’t earned the right to rest. I haven’t earned slowness, spaciousness, and ease. These are lies, of course, but it’s challenging to wade through these assumptions about what it means to have worth and to be human.

Learning to let things slow down is an act of surrender and trust. It requires a degree of confidence in the possibility that slowing will actually improve your life, not compromise it. Learning to let things slow down invites us to attend to those places within where we still strive to earn our worth. Good sleep, prayer and meditation, gentle conversations with loved ones, and dipping into the rhythms of the natural world around us can support us in this process.

Three—Let it all be held.

I decided this morning to work a half-day because I knew my mind would be full of distractions. I’m not sure if elections have always felt this significant, but my read of things is that there are countless, meaningful priorities on the line. The only thing causing me greater distress than the election results themselves is the fact that however the cookie crumbles, a large swath of my neighbors—both literally and para-socially—will be moving through waves of fear, disappointment, and grief in the days to come. I don’t feel ready.

With this heaviness and concern in heart and mind, today I picked up my real camera (not my phone) and wandered around my home capturing images of things I found beautiful, safe, delightful, and warm. This simple practice of paying attention reminded me that no matter what comes, our lives and stories are held by a Goodness much grander than we can imagine. We do not control much of anything that makes for life and flourishing. It is all held, we are all held, by a Love who has knit intentions of care and connection into the very fabric of what it means to be alive. As people, we borrow from that eternal source and are invited to participate in co-creating communities of care and connection alongside one another. This election, though surely consequential, will not absolve us of our responsibility to show up as wholehearted people, dedicated to the daily work of loving well, of caring for our neighbors, and of building communities of service and faith.

I’m learning to let it all be held by Love. I’m learning to find rest and trust and purpose there. What might this look like for you?

I know it’s been a while since I’ve written and shared here.

If you can’t tell, I’m finally re-grounding after an extended season of living and working just beyond my limits. So thank you for your grace. I’m also still working on my book, A More Beautiful Way, so I welcome your prayers and good vibes as I prepare the final sections of my manuscript.

As we turn the page on this election season, unaware of what tomorrow holds, know that I am praying for our shared wellness as we navigate the collective tension of this moment in our political life. May you be well, and may you know the rich grace of being held by Love, come what may.

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Here is a small collection of pictures I captured this morning. Enjoy.

scenes from Cedar Wilde ✨