Year of Self-Compassion #35 #blindspot

We all have blind spots, those parts of ourselves where we can’t see something even though it is in full view of others. In a car, we often have to stop and turn very deliberately and with a contortion to make sure we have all a line of clear sight before we can move with confidence, we do that knowing we are on the road with potential hazards all around us and without caution and care we might put ourselves in harm’s way.  This is not true to the blind spots we hold in relationships where we trust, have confidence and operate as if there is no present danger.  We don’t doubt ourselves about the range of vision of the circumstances we find ourselves in.  We often need others to point out to us what they can clearly see as an obstacle we are facing even though we don’t see it in amongst the everyday obstacles of living without fear.  When fear arrives we begin to second guess everything, we start to check and double check and even triple check the incoming information.  The doubts seep in and we don’t move as confidently on our path or make definitive claims or easy decisions at the crossroads or read the map with the same level of assuredness.

I wonder if the blind spot is a way of us colluding with our selves, not turning or examining what there is to see and learn?  I wonder if it is there to protect us from seeing things that will hurt us? I wonder if it is there to invite others to help us see what we can’t see?  A blind spot is incredibly uncomfortable to face once it is pointed out and you turn towards to the light and see what is there facing you in full view. It is a transfiguration of sorts to come into the blinding light of truth to see something that you couldn’t see before. The invitation offered is one to ask questions you have never asked before, to make meaning from actions that have not had meaning attributed to them, to explore new possibilities and to be open the heartbreaking liberation of an unexplored view, a horizon becoming more visible as the fog lifts.

In the Celtic myth of the Tuatha De Danann, the tall supernatural Irish tribe of gods and goddesses, teachers of science and the arts, with mystical powers to communicate beyond the grave and brought with them four treasures – a stone, a spear, a sword of light and a cauldron from which no one would ever go hungry.  At the moment of attack and when their final battle against overwhelming odds was upon them – they turned sideways towards the light and disappeared.  It was not an act of cowardice or retreat, it was a way of not fighting and finding freedom in a new dimension. They went to the edge and from there turned towards, not away, to the light, the light saves them from perishing and leaves their enemies without a fight to be had. The battle evaporates.  They found the blind spot of their enemy and in turn found their freedom – an extraordinary juxtaposition and lesson from a legend.  It took to the third battle before they took this action.  So I take some comfort that even these wise ones didn’t do it in the first instance, and indeed not doing it at the beginning of their war, they were able to make some gains along the way and learn some lessons that lead them to their final departure from the battle field. They were not going to be taken prisoner by the fight or the enemy. To turn and face the light instead of an on- coming maurading horde seems like very good advice to me. Perhaps it is even the foundations of nonviolent action? If there is nothing to fight then the fight is over; the disinfecting powers of sunlight so well known in modern science reinforces the hygienic value of such an action.

There is something about the relationship between a blind spot and turning towards the light captivating me.  To become transparent and the veil has dropped and all is there to be seen is shining a light on truth and beauty, but to turn towards the light, is a movement of you to the light, where the you and the light can blaze as one, not two elements mirroring one another. An invitation not to reflect the mystical, but to be the mystical.

The blind spot that protected us in the beginning pivots as we become the light and it evaporates.  While it is as natural as a flower rears her head to reach the light and rotate to get the best rays, it feels un-natural to not face the enemies when they appear on the battle field. To leave them there without a fight, to leave the scene altogether feels like giving up, but to be transfigured is to be elevated and transformed, it is an act of beauty visible to gods and goddesses and not one for the dark arts of war and wounds. Luminosity on another plane is quite intoxicating, if only it was as easy as turning towards the light.  Checking just how many battles you have to be in before you leave the field and my enemy is an invisible one turning up when I often am devoid of my armoury.

As an act of self-compassion I am reminding myself , I need people around me to help me with blind spots and I am grateful for those who point them out to me. This is feedback with bravery. I am also setting a practice to notice when I can turn towards the light, and in doing find more beauty and peace, more artistry and magic.

 

TOBAR PHADRAIC

Turn sideways into the light as they say
the old ones did and disappear
into the originality of it all.

Be impatient with easy explanations
and teach that part of the mind
that wants to know everything
not to begin questions it cannot answer.

Walk the green road above the bay
and the low glinting fields
toward the evening sun, let that Atlantic
gleam be ahead of you and the gray light
of the bay below you, until you catch,
down on your left, the break in the wall,
for just above in the shadows
you’ll find it hidden, a curved arm
of rock holding the water close to the mountain,
a just-lit surface smoothing a scattering of coins,
and in the niche above, notes to the dead
and supplications for those who still live
.
But for now, you are alone with the transfiguration
and ask no healing for your own
but look down as if looking through time,
as if through a rent veil from the other
side of the question you’ve refused to ask.

And you remember now, that clear stream
of generosity from which you drank,
how as a child your arms could rise and your palms
turn out to take the blessing of the world.

In RIVER FLOW: New and Selected Poems
© David Whyte and Many Rivers Press

reflections

 

Year of Self-Compassion #34 #musclememory

Regular readers will know I started the year with a couple of serious injurious falls and every now and again I am reminded of them when I move a certain way or get an attack of the giggles or have a giant sneeze.  The body remembers even when we don’t. Muscle memory is a real thing and I am always astonished that my fingers still know where to go on a guitar even though I haven’t played in decades.  Emotional memory is true too – instead of the muscle groups remembering – the synaptic pathways have experience to draw on … I guess this is why, back when I was counselling people, I always asked them to remember a time when they were (insert word here) joyful, excited, tenacious, flexible etc.  Building on the pathway already there to be strengthened and used to serve you.

In this week when our country has changed leaders, I really wonder how a political party room, hasn’t gone to it’s national muscle and emotional memory?  Making the same mistakes over and over again will only lead to the same results in the same way making the right choices over and over again will lead to improvements in fitness. Once you get to the bottom and all the bad choices have been made and you want to start making better choices it is a long and disciplined road to the future you want to create.  It may even mean taking part in systems that you don’t like much or finding new ones hidden in your landscape to draw on. Taking yourself to an edge and then instead of jumping off, looking up not down. Going to your best self, drawing on the energy of the ground on which we walk, the ancient land in this pale blue dot that holds us all together – past, present and future.

I have sat with sadness this week embodied in others as well as myself. Sadness seeping into depression for one; sadness seeping out of being overwhelmed for another; sadness weeping like a sore for another and for me sadness as another layer of rock inside of me being worn away slowly by tears.  This body knows how to cry now, it is beginning to learn how to accept generosity, and it is opening up to the weariness that is deep in the muscle memory each time stillness arrives.  Years, decades in fact, of caring and comforting, holding up more than half the sky for those under the same roof have left the synaptic pathways finding themselves lost – threads of a tapestry seeking to be woven in and it is in the under side, the backstory where they are being sewn.  This under belly of history, my story, a story not yet finished, and one that is searching to be grounded in a self under re-construction.

I often talk in my work about the difference between disruption and service reform and I find I am disrupting myself rather than re-forming. Cultural change at the cellular level living with less of everything in my life has me teetering on a precipice inviting me to more courage and vulnerability. With each little drama … and there are many …. a little of the old is chiselled away and either left for dust or replaced with a wobbly, fragile beginning of a new synaptic pathway.  Sticking to the discipline and practice of reinforcing what will serve me from a baseline so low is almost beyond me some days.  Deep breathing seems to help. I can remember how to do that and how it has served me well. Giving with grace and grit serves me too and I have plenty of experience to draw from that well. The learning is to add and draw from that well for myself, giving to myself with the same zeal and generosity is new learning. The idea of putting myself first, novel.  The practice of choosing me first completely unchartered.  My struggle with this has always been with the ego and selfishness, now I see it truly is, as Audre Lorde offered, self-preservation, a political act and silence will not protect you. I also find myself turning to other revolutionary thinkers, disruptors of comfortable thoughts. Freire reminds us in The Pedagogy of the Oppressed of the focus of change is confronting the seed of the oppressor planted within us to knows their tactics, understand their relationships.

The pain of growth and the changes it brings build new memories and fitness for disruption, this is part of the exposure, the transparency that comes with the decisions and actions we take.  (Malcolm Turnbull asking for the signatures to call the spill was disruption is not lost on me as a tactic for self-compassion even though it may not have looked like that to others.) I am examining and cross-examining the oppressor inside my interior party room and not quite sure how to make a spill happen that will stick, but am doing quite a lot to lobby what needs to move on and exercising my values in the process. I have the values muscle memories and synaptic pathways to hold me, while I strengthen and get them fit for purpose for this time in my life.

In this year of self-compassion there is both exercising and exorcising.

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Disrupting layers – Ireland 2013

 

Year of Self-Compassion #33 #Respect

In the most humble of starts Aretha Franklin was born in Memphis – where else but the south? Her birthplace is a barely preserved tiny house in Lucy St Memphis. A plaque was put up last year and I expect in no time at all it will become a shrine to the Queen of Soul and pilgrims of music will be flocking there in much the same way Gracelands has become a shrine for Elvis.  Memphis is one helluva town – you can see the entire music industry ecosystem of a bygone era on every corner, outfitters to the King, through the Gibson guitar factory, Beale Street holds the memories and sounds which became the bedrock of 2oth century cultures and sub-cultures. But without the songs of the slaves being drawn out of the swamps and all along the Mississippi we wouldn’t have any of it.  Memphis is a place I would not have thought of visiting but it was the first stop on a gospel singing tour I did with Tony Backhouse in 2016.  I learnt a lot in Memphis and I bow down to their contribution and showing the world their talents.

Music is such a healing force in my life. I can’t imagine what it would be like without music or the capacity to make music. When I make music with others there is a visceral and involuntary bonus of community that holds me for a moment. Singing in my local acapella gospel choir is the best medicine. I grew up with singing around the piano to show tunes from My Fair Lady to Godspell, to songs from family stories like Galway Bay and Tie me Kangaroo Down, to songs of a generation penned by Lennon and McCartney or Rodgers and Hammerstein. Later in life (my teens and early twenties) this music was replaced by the rock gospel of Jesus Christ Superstar and American evangelical songwriters like Larry Norman, Randy Stonehill and Keith Greene. There was the inevitable St Louis Jesuit set as well as these were needed in the repertoire for church services. Eventually Australian composers got a bit of look in, but the majority were from the US.  Going to Memphis I was able to put it altogether  – I got to the DNA of rock and roll, hip hop, soul and R & B – it was in Africa. The slaves had bought their music and the back beat and syncopation, the pathos and driving rhythms, the pounding confidence in a higher authority – it was all there – in Memphis.

The appropriation was there too. I could no longer listen or sing with enjoyment to Peter, Paul and Mary or even Pete Seeger and Woodie Guthrie without realising they were on the back of this tradition. I had to go to the source to understand.  Like the practice of hermeneutics in theology (where you apply a set of principles of interpretation to look for what is and isn’t in the text by what is visible and what I say is sewn in the seams), I discovered this is true in music too. All music is from the streets, the fields, the transit stations, threshold moments in personal and corporal history. When you hear, or read a line, that says she went back to her husband, you know that means she left her husband; when you hear I told her we couldn’t keep meeting like this, you know that means there were meetings of an intimate kind … these are the ways a story is revealed, but not spelled out.  When we hear Aretha sing Otis Redding’s Respect we know there was no respect first. Aretha made this song her own and it became an anthem.  She spelled it out R E S P E C T. There was nothing left to find still hidden in the seams, she made sure it was writ large with all the savvy and sass Memphis could squeeze out of her. And writ large, is how I hope as a sign of respect, her first home in Memphis will be made visible to the world.

Aretha’s version of Respect is on high rotation. It is a song that is deeper for me, now because of having gone to Memphis and understanding the town and their music a little more than I did if I hadn’t visited. In this time of wake, I reverently bow to Aretha and all the people that brought her music to the world.

I find myself in this year of self-compassion, giving thanks to those invisible behind the scenes who have brought me to places and spaces, sounds and sights and opening me up to self-respect. To respect yourself and give yourself the same acclaim, admiration, regard as you would any one else is perhaps one of the key ingredients to self-compassion.  I have a natural aversion to feeling pride and taking credit for anything, because I know nothing, absolutely nothing is down to your own devices. Maybe respect is not pride, and instead, the surety of acting with integrity to yourself and with the trust and conviction of the horn section in Respect (a riff that can’t be unheard once heard). Standing up for yourself and your interpretation of the lyric and the sound, is a way to respect yourself, to tell your story as you see it and hear it. Respect is commanded because of your self-respect and sometimes you do have to spell it out so you can sing your own song and go back to your roots and find the strength in those foundations, unappropriated, raw and ready for release.

Thanks Aretha, Otis and all the crews at Atlantic Records for inviting us to the conversation for a little respect.

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Where Aretha was born

Year of Self Compassion #32 #co-existence

The daffodils are blooming and the fig tree is liberated from leaves. The landscape is offering me an invitation to see co-existence. My emotions are at war. There are days when I cannot reconcile or integrate memories and feeling for the future, without sadness and re-wiring.

In a week with plenty of ups and downs, that included tyres on my car being slashed, I find coexistence an act of self-compassion. With the tyres unable to hold the air, the car needing to be towed, new tyres needed and a whole re-adjustment and realignment for the vehicle, the irony was not lost on me! It is not so easy with a human body, as it is for a mechanical one to transition. My friend tells me mercury is in retrograde, and a young woman I encounter tells me the Lion’s Gate is open – both with equal confidence to help explain these set of circumstances. I totally accept the cosmic drama surrounding me and operating with no regard to anything I am, or am not, doing – the daffodil flowering is enough evidence for me.

Buds are detailing the fig, and visible life will burst forth when the weather agrees and accepts the kiss of the sun’s rays, life was always there though, whether or not I could see it in the empty branch. The wild winds of winter and crashing broken boughs in the night in the garden leave some creatures homeless and foraging quickly for new places … they just get up and move on … an easeful response to the disruption that leaves me envious. I long to have a tow truck come and pick me up, take me for new tyres, leave the slashed parts behind for recycling that I have nothing to do with, and send me on my way slightly renewed and with confidence of being able to stay on the road safely. Instead, I meander and get lost in my thoughts, speed through intersections I should stop at and take in the view, get distracted and go down rabbit holes instead of focussing on what is right in front of me – spring getting ready to show herself.

I have emotions of grief finding themselves alongside excitement and potential; moments of paralysing fear alongside epic bravery; occasions of emptiness as deep and hollow as anyone could endure alongside enriching and broad expressions of generosity. In this field, trying to integrate is not working and the landscape is inviting me to respect and allow the diversity of states to co-exist. Integration is not possible. I am not even sure integration is desirable, allowing all the feelings to be respected and have their own integrity, without having to vie for a place in the emotional landscape may end this interior civil war.

Letting my emotions co-exist instead of them trying to organise them or unite or harmonise them, is an act of self-compassion. They all have a right to be there, all have their place in this field I am in right now, each have to find their own way to loose their leaves, bud, regenerate, fall in the wind. This calls for mutual inclusion and dignity for all the feelings.

I am reminded of Rumi who writes of the rumour of winter being over. While it is not over for me, I am beginning to lean into the possibility of spring.

For the music we are – Rumi

Did you hear that winter’s over?
The basil and the carnations
cannot control their laughter.

The nightingale, back from his wandering,
has been made singing master over the birds.

The trees reach out their congratulations.
The soul goes dancing through the king’s doorway.

Anemones blush
because they have seen the rose naked.

Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the courtroom,
and several December thieves steal away,
Last year’s miracles will soon be forgotten.

New creatures whirl in from non-existence,
galaxies scattered around their feet.
Have you met them?

Do you hear the bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle?
A single narcissus flower has been appointed
Inspector of Kingdoms.

A feast is set.
Listen: the wind is pouring wine!
Love used to hide inside images: no more!
The orchard hangs out its lanterns.
The dead come stumbling by in shrouds.

Nothing can stay bound or be imprisoned.
You say, “End this poem here,
and wait for what’s next.”

I will.
Poems are rough notations
for the music we are.

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Winter morning at Tatachilla

Year of Self Compassion #31 #scarcity

Having an experience of scarcity seems like an indulgent first world problem to me and yet I go tripping down that rabbit warren more than I have for a long time. Having downsized my life in most ways in the last year, not all at my own hand, I often catch myself wanting.  I recall my economics classes where the lesson that resources are finite, and an insatiable appetite for growth featured regularly.  This economic equation keeps revisiting me at so many levels, practical, spiritual, meta physical.  I want more – one last conversation, one last kiss, one last meal. I want less – one less speeding fine, one less demand, one less choice.

The invitation to simplicity is one giant mathematical computation of complexity that results in an overwhelming sense of a sum zero game that I never asked to play.  This see-saw of being grateful for what I have and feeling a paucity of intimacy is quite exhausting. The ups and downs of the see-saw are grief on her ride through me and the interior landscapes I traverse. Many of these lands are new to me, and some I keep revisiting looking for meaning and magic to unlock and hold memories, hoping the voyage of this Dawn Treader will come to shore soon to rest and find me in a safe habour.   I know I am in a safe habour all the time and I do have enough of all that I need. Yet …

There are triggers all around that sneak up and remind me of scarcity. I see couples making plans for a life together and I want to warn them how it will all end. I hear the dog barking next door, wearing himself out waiting for his family to come home and his loneliness grows and then dissipates giving up just before they arrive. I feel the ash, and am infused with the smell of the fire from the broken limbs fallen from the wild winds the night before, that I have made into a little hearth in the back yard, and I think about the differences between being buried and cremated. (How does carbon get stored and released?) That leads me to think about land, the scarcity of it, my carbon footprint, the legacy I leave by all my actions. This is not living abundantly, my scarcity lens is keeping me from fullness and it refuses to leave me and contributing to a feeling of self-indulgence.

Theologians and economists have always found abundance and scarcity a point of difference. I think the root of the challenge to get this balance right, lies somewhere in gratitude, generosity and hope. Being generous is a sign of abundance, my biggest currency has always been time and now I realise how finite time is and I am making more choices with me at the middle of the equation, again a new landscape and one where I am yet to master. Being grateful is a practice and I am trying to be agnostic about what I am grateful for, everything can be appreciated and received with kindness. This practice seems to be woven with respect and recognition, actually being able to notice the gift however unseemly wrapped it comes to me. Hope offers potential to shape what will come next and to be an actor in that future without letting the scarcity filter, is a daily exercise in my inner life gym.

In this year of self-compassion, I am struggling to replace scarcity with abundance which has been my default for so long. Privileges I took for granted or worse, hadn’t even noticed I had. These privileges are now inviting me to pivot, flipping abundance for  scarcity, There are invitations waiting for me to find the wealth within, the freedom of less and joy of simplicity.  I will try not to shame myself too much for defining this feeling of scarcity as a first world problem, as it is teaching me to be more mindful, more conscious of my consumption of all kinds of things from air time to fossil fuels. To be more gentle on myself and grateful for all the times I have been generous and how that disposition is one of the key reasons for the depth of the wound. After all something that is scarce is also rare and therefore usually incredibly precious and perhaps that is the clue to the relationship between abundance and scarcity – the rare space that one creates for the other.

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Photo by Sam Soffes on Unsplash

Year of Self Compassion #30 #familiarity

Travelling through time and space, in a tardis camouflaged as a 2017 Kia, it is inevitable there will be familiar and unfamiliar moments to greet me.

This week my pilgrimage has taken me back in time to meet relatives I didn’t know I had and to join some dots on the family tree. Once again the nature / nurture theory is being cross-examined at close range. Rebecca Sohnit says “branches are hope, roots are memory” and these words seem to be helpful.

In the roots, I find more generations of music, lilts and tilts towards the Emerald Isle. The wind instruments echoing and haunting wild landscapes, that somehow contain untamed mysteries. The endless pattern of call and response, the syncopation of clapping and stomping drives home the familiar. (All we were missing was a fiddler.) There was dancing and drinking.

Many branches of hope from these roots across generations uprooted, pruned, cut off, abused, neglected. Faded photographs, snippets of stories, incomplete threads – all have a way of being woven together as the soundscape holds us around the table. Bread broken, wine poured, a powerful eucharist and toast to the common ancestor, a woman Alicia who bore a generation of children that found their way across this country.

You can travel for hours and still be in the same country. That is what grief is like for me – always being in the same country even though I travel far from home. There is wailing on the songlines of this journey and my tears join with the other branches, where loss and being lost has been the status update of other pilgrims. Around this table, I witness resilience from these hardy roots. I experience solidarity without explanation. I offer song without fear. Roots are deep and branches are wide.

Hope is invitational and promises the ability to change the narrative, without denying the history. Memories serve as humus, transforming by decaying into food for the branches. Whatever caused the break is unknown and now irrelevant, as another chord is played and toe is tapped.

I ache to be on The Burren and to have the west wind in my hair. There is a grand disturbance once again making me unsettled and joining with revelations of who no longer longs for me. I am taking instruction from the roots in County Tyrone so these branches can push out power and hope from the dark, blessed and blessing.

For Longing
By John O’Donohue

Blessed be the longing that brought you here
And quickens your soul with wonder.
May you have the courage to listen to the voice of desire
That disturbs you when you have settled for something safe.
May you have the wisdom to enter generously into your own unease
To discover the new direction your longing wants you to take.
May the forms of your belonging–in love, creativity, and friendship–
Be equal to the grandeur and the call of your soul.
May the one you long for long for you.

May your dreams gradually reveal the destination of your desire.

May a secret Providence guide your thought and nurture your feeling.

May your mind inhabit your life with the sureness with which your body inhabits the world.

May your heart never be haunted by ghost structures of old damage.

May you come to accept your longing as divine urgency.

May you know the urgency with which God longs for you.

Year of Self Compassion #29 #urgency

For two days I have been in the Hybrid World Lab working up an idea about measuring  individual and corporate contributions to Sustainable Development Goals, inspired by Nobel Laurete Muhammad Yunus challenge for a world of three zeros.  Being in the lab with two amazing women was intense in the context of a competition. It is not the way I like to iterate ideas and bring them to fruition, however it is how mostly I have worked over the years with urgency of parliamentary question time, front pages and more importantly the urgency of the changes that are necessary for population well-being or individual well being.  Whether it being about getting someone into a service to help them make it through the night in domestic violence or psychiatric care or for the three year old who will be starting school in two years in a location, conspiring against them so  they won’t be reaching their developmental milestones – urgency is real.  We have the capacity to make decisions in a climate of urgency many times a day – running a red light springs to mind immediately. A sense of urgency is not the same as something being urgent – and not all urgency is important.

In the lab we were exposed to mentors with a wide range of backgrounds to challenge, extend and develop our thinking. They all wanted the best from us so we could make our idea visible to investors.  To be surrounded by such talent was an incredible privilege and with it I felt an urgency to make the most of their time and learn from them.  We also had some speakers to inform and encourage us along the way.  One of those was Dr Christyl Johnson, Deputy Director of Technology and Research at NASA.  I was on the only all female team (in fact only 2 other teams had a woman on them out of 13 teams).  She could have talking about pitching to government, she could have shared her knowledge of research and investment, but instead she spent her 15 minutes telling us to become masters at managing our fear. She defined fear as an acronym – false evidence appearing real.  This is not the first time I have heard that, but this time it resonated me with a sense of urgency and prompted by a question from my fellow team member about the fear of success inviting me to recall Marianne Williamson being quoted by Nelson Mandela at his inauguration speech (it was his 100th birthday this week).

 Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. 

My sense of urgency seems to be fuelled by the big issues of our time and my own mortality looming as another decade approaches.  There is nothing like a palliative care or sudden death experience to wake you up to living more intentionally with legacy in mind. These are some of the ways urgency shows up.  The rate of change is a driver of urgency too. I once worked with a woman for whom everything was urgent and the rest of the developed a code for how urgent she thought something was with the number of times she used really in a directive …. this is really urgent had a lower value to this is really, really, really urgent. We took to treating a 3 really’s as urgent and in imminent danger. I used to call this the Danger Will Robinson moment in the office and if everyone wasn’t ready to deliver in that moment the fallout would have catastrophic consequences for some of us. I took over the leadership role after her and made it clear to all that we knew everything was urgent, but we were not the A & E department dealing with a car crash victim every five minutes, so instead we would have a set of values and guides to get us through all the small decisions before anything came urgent. Inoculation for the everyday and urgency when something we couldn’t see landed in our orbit.

Having values to hang on to, principles to guide you, a squad of people to support you – all help deal with urgency. As Christyl reminded us yesterday, holding tight and having mastery of your fear, and being clear that you know best or what it is that is important to you (whether that is an idea, a change you want to make for yourself or the world), will keep you grounded.

Unmastered fear and unfettered urgency are a nasty combination, but mastery over fear and urgency liberated by truth … well … that is an act of deep self-compassion.  Settling into yourself with your feet planted and deeply rooted in your own genius, fabulousness and with fearless unleashed … whoa that is something to behold!  I got to see what that looked like in Christyl Johnson and I am deeply grateful for the experience getting into the Hybrid World Lab offered me for that piece alone. We didn’t win the comp, but we won over fear.

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A fangirl moment with Dr Christyl Johnson