I love these circles. They seem to bring forward writings and thoughts and emerging ideas just as I am experiencing them.
This is how our natural world is evolving
Land and Online
What if there is no real choice between dusting and living?
I came home after nearly ten days away already imagining the weeding waiting in the garden. Things would have grown in my absence. There would be clearing to do.
And yet, what had I been doing while I was away?
Listening to music.
Climbing mountains.
Eating well.
Meeting and reconnecting with people.
Looking up into a night sky filled with stars.
All of it was still moving through me as I returned—to the garden, to the weeds, to the dust, and today, quite literally, to cleaning the floor.
Maybe these are not separate activities at all.
There is an inside and an outside to this clearing, a turning that feels especially alive right now. In yoga we rotate the body, shift our orientation to gravity, look behind ourselves, breat...
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I love these circles. They seem to bring forward writings and thoughts and emerging ideas just as I am experiencing them.
This is how our natural world is evolving
Land and Online
What if there is no real choice between dusting and living?
I came home after nearly ten days away already imagining the weeding waiting in the garden. Things would have grown in my absence. There would be clearing to do.
And yet, what had I been doing while I was away?
Listening to music.
Climbing mountains.
Eating well.
Meeting and reconnecting with people.
Looking up into a night sky filled with stars.
All of it was still moving through me as I returned—to the garden, to the weeds, to the dust, and today, quite literally, to cleaning the floor.
Maybe these are not separate activities at all.
There is an inside and an outside to this clearing, a turning that feels especially alive right now. In yoga we rotate the body, shift our orientation to gravity, look behind ourselves, breathe into places we cannot ordinarily see. Sometimes a twist releases something. Sometimes it simply offers another view.
And perhaps life moves like this too—not in a straight line, but in octaves.
We arrive.
We sense.
We allow.
Something interrupts the expected progression.
We relate.
We create together.
Another interval asks something of us.
We release.
We listen for what is being invited next.
And then—somehow—we arrive again.
Not at the same place.
The garden I return to is not the garden I left.
The floor I wash is not merely a floor.
And I am not quite the person who departed ten days ago.
Music, mountains, meals, conversations, stars, weeds, dust, water, body, Earth—all become part of the same circulation.
Perhaps this is what I am learning from these stacking octaves: clearing is not always about removing things. Sometimes it is simply making enough space for what has already been moving through us to find its place.
So yes, dust if you must.
Weed if you must.
Turn, twist, sweep, wash, wander, climb, sing, look up.
And perhaps somewhere in all that movement, something long waiting beneath the accumulation begins to move again—
like an eternal spring
finding its way through the Earth,
ready to flow clear again.
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