What the Hammock Taught Me

Photo by Alice Triquet on Unsplash

I remember sinking into the hammock with a book, sometimes drifting off, or lost in the sound of birds chirping, leaves rustling. Nothing to reach for. Nothing to finish.

The slow pace was natural, like the air. I’d catch myself thinking, “I read two books.” Part of me wanted to downplay it, as if
rest needed to be earned to count, but even that small noticing mattered. Awareness doesn’t ask to be impressive. It only asks to be noticed.

Nature surrounded me, and I let it. I breathed in the trees, smelled the lake, and simply being outside slowed me without effort. I didn’t scroll. I let most things wait. Three emails mattered. Everything else could simply be.

One afternoon, I found a cozy spot by the window, mountains ahead, the lake catching light, the trees framing it like something being held rather than owned. I took a bite of salmon, and let myself stay there, in that one bite, before reaching for the next. The birds moved. The water moved. I did not.

Forty-five minutes passed before I noticed time at all. I woke when I woke. I showed up fully to yoga, to qigong, not performing presence, just being in it. The real teaching wasn’t a lesson I could carry home and repeat. It was quieter than that: eat slowly. Notice what’s already here. Listen to birds, to rain, to the space between one moment and the next.

At Kripalu, slowness wasn’t something I practiced. It simply arrived, the way breath arrives, unbidden. I didn’t build it. I received it.

Now that I’m home, slowness asks something different of me. It isn’t given here, it has to be chosen, again and again. Some mornings I hear the birds and sit down with my food like I mean it. Other mornings, the noise gets in first, and I eat without noticing. I begin again. It stings a little, that presence doesn’t stay on its own the way it did there, but perhaps that’s the practice itself: not staying present forever, just returning, endlessly, to now.

I don’t know if this will still be true in October. But I remember what it felt like when slowness came without asking. So I keep listening for it here, not chasing it, just leaving room for it to arrive again. 

To Be Seen and Heard

Photo by Vanilla Panda on Unsplash

                                                            

My yearning didn’t need fixing; it needed to be seen and heard.

At Kripalu, I first discovered a poem by John O’Donohue, “For Belonging,” and it’s stayed with me, resurfacing when I need it. What really struck me was how the poem sees yearning as something vibrant, not something broken. It doesn’t feel like a problem to solve; it feels like a truth to welcome. It made “longing” feel real and human, something I didn’t have to apologize for. And the idea of being “free” felt like a gentle permission, not a pressure. Permission to go back to my heart and soul first, not just my head.

In nature, that message became even clearer. The outside world slows me down enough to hear what’s beneath the yearning: a gentler pace, a quieter mind, a deeper sense of peace. I notice it in the birdsong and in how my body softens when I’m not forcing anything.

Lately, I keep coming back to this: listening is more important than fixing. The question isn’t just what needs to change right now, but what happens when I acknowledge longing without rushing to smooth it over. What does it want to show me? What guidance does it offer when I treat it with respect instead of urgency? What happens when I actually see it and listen, instead of rushing past it?

Maybe the point isn’t to be “free” all at once. Maybe it’s to keep coming back, to see what’s there, listen carefully, and ask what I’m longing for before I try to manage, decide, or fix.

You can find “For Belonging” in O’Donohue’s collection To Bless the Space Between Us.

A Mid-Year Pause for the Spirit

July arrives quietly, and I pause, not because everything has gone wrong but because enough has already gone by. The year is half-spent, and before I let the second half carry me along, I want to choose how I meet it.

This is what I call a spiritual check-in, not a performance review, no list of failures —just a gentle reckoning,  a few minutes of honest attention to what has been nourishing and what hasn't.

I begin by finding a quiet space and closing my eyes. Five slow breaths. With each exhale I let a little of what I’ve been holding go. I'm not trying to solve anything, just making space for my intuition to be heard.

Then I take stock. On paper, I jot down three things that have fed  my spirit and three that have drained it. Specific things, like a morning routine I finally kept, a conversation that cost me more than it should have, a practice I let go of too soon. Seeing them written down helps me understand what to carry forward and what to release.

From there I return to my guiding light — a word, a phrase, an image that grounds me. Curious. Remember breath. Be present. I choose one and let it settle. I write it at the top of the page and let it move me into the next six months.

Then I choose  one practice. Just one. Something small enough to actually do: five minutes of silence each morning, a weekly walk without my phone, one evening a week with a notebook and a candle. I decide when and where, because intention without a container tends to drift.

I close with a small ritual to mark the moment: hands wrapped around a warm cup, a candle lit, a hand pressed to my heart. Something that lets my body feel the choice, not just my mind.

Mid-year is not a deadline. It's a doorway. Walk through it slowly; that slow attention is its own kind of faith.