Creative Sanctuary

Meditation

Embody

By Allison

woman exercising

Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu was on this morning’s agenda, but a strained wrist is keeping me cozy at home.  I am bummed to miss class and wonder which techniques I’d have practiced—takedowns, choke holds, hooks?  But my tender wrist is telling me exactly what I need to do today:  rest.

In the last few years, rigorous exercise has taken me out of my mind and placed me squarely in my body.  While the language of ideas has always come naturally to me, the language of sports has not.  I am a timid athlete.  In elementary school, I was too polite to fight for the basketball.  As a young tennis player, I had fun learning forehand and backhand but felt overwhelmed by the prospect of lobbing the ball.  I grew into a scholar and participated primarily in gentle activities such as hiking, yoga, and brisk walks. Even now, I am competitive with myself but never with others.

I am not drawn to team sports, but strenuous exercise has done wonders for me.  Thanks to regular weight training, I’m calmer and steadier in my movements.  I am coordinated, strong, and light on my feet.  I have learned to listen closely to my body’s messages, and it inevitably tells me what I need to know.  Sleep a little more.  Blow off steam at the gym.  Walk away from this person.

This embodied existence is new to me.  Intense exercise has taught me how to balance body and spirit.  I have not abandoned a life of the mind, but I am now less likely to get locked in ideas and lost in intellectual questions.  I am comfortable in the weight room and seek to be part of an inclusive athletic culture at my gym and on my campus.

Though my confidence has grown in the last two years, I remain intimidated by Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.  As I knot my white belt and get ready to step on the mat, I acknowledge a nervous tummy.  I feel out of my element.  Drills are invigorating and practicing new techniques is stimulating, but putting the pieces together and grappling with classmates overwhelms me.  When it becomes too much, I back away and learn through watching rather than doing.  I am still dabbling, curious though not quite ready to let myself go in the calculated movements of the martial art.  I want to embody the grace of Jiu-Jitsu.  When the time is right, my anxiety will melt away, uniting body and spirit.

Inspirations

Feeling Safe in My Body

Luxurious Boredom

 

Tender Season

By Allison

wrangling unruly toddlerThis being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival […]
Welcome and entertain them all!
–Rumi

As we move into the holiday season, I find myself approaching each gesture with reverence.  Zipping up my long, puffy jacket to meet the icy morning becomes an act of self-protection.  Carving out 20 minutes to light a candle and practice yoga is a sort of prayer for a good night’s sleep.

These chilly, emotionally charged months call for tenderness.  First and foremost, we must be tender with ourselves.  I’ve spent the year learning to welcome all the emotions that arise.  Exhilaration and sorrow both visited and stayed on for a while.  Anger made its way through my guest house, but so did joy.  When I tried to oust my uninvited guests, they hunkered down. In The Guest House, Rumi encourages us to

Be grateful for whatever comes,
Because each has been sent
As a guide from beyond.

At some point in this mind-boggling year, I stopped resisting the emotions I’d rather not feel.  Sadness, grief, and outrage took up space in my house.  I finally befriended them.  I engaged with them.  I ultimately tamed them.  And then they left me.  Allowing these guests to hang out for a while created an internal ease because I wasn’t focused on resisting them.  My life went on, more or less uninterrupted.  I traveled, I rested, and come fall, I threw myself into my work.  All the while, I tended to my guests, moving through successive ups and downs.

I learned to be tender with the effects of betrayal and the deep hurt that ensues.  I was patient with my healing process, extending grace to myself when I seemed to backslide.  Thankfully, my house is now less crowded and far less confusing.  Rumi teaches that unruly guests may be clearing you out for some new delight.  I hope this is true.  In the meantime, I’m content to move about my spacious, bright, relatively empty self.

Inspirations

Rumi’s The Guest House, Translated by Coleman Barks

The Rumi Prescription, by Melody Moezzi

Fallow

By Allison

fallow fieldFallow times are productive times.  I’ve spent the last few months lazing around intellectually.  Given that I was coming down from a handful of writing deadlines and processing a few emotional hardships, it was appropriate to settle into a protective and hollow mental space.  I admit that I haven’t been reading a lot.  I haven’t even been thinking very much.  I’ve been curled up, so to speak, allowing my mind to rest so that my creative spirit will reset and regenerate.

Stepping away from an active mindset is easier said than done.  Even when I seek a change of pace, it takes me days to settle into a state in which my mind doesn’t churn.  Fallowness gives way to sensations of boredom, and boredom makes me feel guilty.  When I notice feelings of shame coming on, I swat them away.  I remind myself that boredom declutters my mind and makes space for intellectual freshness.  It creates an environment in which streams of thought might flow and original ideas might form.  Our bodies are similar to fields that benefit from periods of inactivity.  We emerge rejuvenated and bring our new energy to our work and our relationships.  Not only are we better thanks to fallow periods, but people around us also benefit from the inactive time we’ve given to ourselves.

After a few months that have felt empty and blank, I sense a shift in myself.  Ideas are percolating.  Each day I sit down to write, and energy rushes into my palms and then my fingers.  I am mostly writing fluff, but I’m writing.  Though my curiosity and focus are returning, I’m not charging forward just yet.  This selfish, fallow period has been restorative.  I’ve been kind to myself.  I’ve allowed my mind to wander.  The starkness has brought new perspectives and opened my heart. Surprising, unexpected creative paths have emerged, and I tentatively begin to pursue them.

 

Burnout or Exhaustion?

By Allison

salt field FranceThe word “burnout” has been a buzzword for a few years, and I’ve recently come to understand that I’ve both misused and overused the term.  I’ve vented to my friends about my COVID burnout and complained that I’m feeling burnt out at work, all in an effort to voice ongoing fatigue and frustration.

Burnout is a specific kind of work-related stress that the Mayo Clinic defines as “a state of physical or emotional exhaustion that also involves a sense of reduced accomplishment and loss of personal identity.”  Symptoms of professional burnout can include disillusionment or irritability.  People suffering from job burnout often feel cynical, critical, and/or low energy.  Possible causes include unhealthy workplace dynamics, unclear expectations, lack of control over one’s schedule or assignments, and an unsustainable work-life balance.

Though my work often tires me, it is intellectually energizing.  I have always maintained a sense of control over my work life. I have supportive colleagues and charming students.  Most importantly, I have agency and autonomy.  In my workplace, I speak my mind without fear of reprisal, and I have total freedom in my teaching.  I have latitude, and this is a luxury.

So, I do not suffer from burnout.  My issue is recurring exhaustion.  I often feel drained, but I nonetheless maintain my sense of self and a degree of control over my professional life.  I believe it is important to distinguish between professional burnout and exhaustion because they call for different treatments.  Those who suffer from burnout need help making meaning in their lives, finding meaningful work and activities, and perhaps assistance to move towards having more autonomy in their work.  If, however, someone suffers from exhaustion like I do, treatment involves taking a break, setting boundaries, and having true quiet time.

To be honest, I don’t see myself finding a cure for my exhaustion.  Being a professor is incredibly intense at certain times of the year and very calm at others.  Some years are more demanding than others, depending on service commitments to one’s institution, course load, and writing deadlines.  This is part of the rhythm of academia, at least in the States.  However, I am confident that I can get a handle on the exhaustion as it arises.  First, I need to correctly identify my exhaustion (and stop labeling it “burnout”).  Then, I need to be gracious with myself.  I can set aside papers that need to be graded, allow a creative project to linger, or go on a screen diet. My antidote to exhaustion is rejuvenation—sleep, long walks, travel, and time spent with loved ones.

Inspirations

Job burnout: How to spot it and take action (Mayo Clinic)

It’s Time to Embrace Slow Productivity (The New Yorker)

Your work is not your god: welcome to the age of the burnout epidemic (The Guardian)

Disenfranchised Grief: Ways to Deal and Heal

By Allison

Tuscan hills

Each of us has built a collection of seemingly small losses in the last few years—cancelled trips, lost time with family, missed events like graduations and weddings.  The accumulation of these disappointments weighs heavy and cultivates disenfranchised grief.  This type of grief is difficult to identify, and a lot of us feel guilty honoring it.  When others have suffered more, what right do we have to mourn our more minor losses?

I believe it is essential to acknowledge disenfranchised grief, to speak it to someone with whom we feel safe, and then to find alternative ways to enact small joys.  I’ve recently felt a diffused, latent grumpiness.  I didn’t understand why my temper was short, and I didn’t know why I was feeling emotional.  When I paused and went within, I realized that my quiet little griefs had brought on a palpable mood shift.  The second I acknowledged my disenfranchised grief, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease a bit.  It’s okay to feel sad for the lost moments with loved ones and the vacations that never happened.  As I let my grief evolve, I distract myself in lighthearted ways.  The feelings of disappointment will diminish, and in the meantime, I counterbalance my grief with happy activities.

Memory Travel

With travel severely restricted and very stressful, I’ve mostly traveled through my past.  The last two weeks, my 2015 trip to Italy’s Val d’Orcia has been on my mind.  I’m reliving the early mornings on the deck, when the sun came up over the valley, the wild boars squealed, and the birds chirped.  Day after day, I’ve been seeing the glorious Tuscan hills in my third eye and almost tasting the fruity olive oil we drizzled on our pasta.  Rather than leave me with a sense of loss, my Italian reveries are fulfilling and hopeful.

Awaken the Senses

Throughout the pandemic, the kitchen has been my happy place.  Meal preparation calls upon multiple senses.  I see the bright produce I pull from the grocery shelves, touch the ingredients as I chop, smell the herbs as I rub them between my fingers, hear the vegetables sizzle in the olive oil, and taste the dish resulting from my labor.  After tinkering with my winter minestrone soup, I am ready to share my recipe, found at the end of this post.  Please make it your own!  Dried beans are even more delicious than canned, and dried herbs can be used in a pinch. My winter minestrone will adjust to your whims, your pantry, and your senses.

Work It Out on the Mat

Sometimes the best way to deal with grief is through movement.  This week, my yoga mat has been a place of respite.  I admit I’m not pushing myself hard.  My exercise is slow and intentional.  In the weeks to come, I’ll be ready for more rigor.  But for now, I just need to process loss and disappointment.  I am learning that acknowledging my grief is uplifting.

 

Winter Minestrone

Created by on December 30, 2021

Hills of Tuscany

Ingredients

  • 1/4 c extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for serving
  • Parmesan cheese, grated
  • 1/4 c extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for serving
  • 1 medium-large onion
  • 2 ribs celery, diced
  • 2 carrots, diced
  • 3 cloves garlic, sliced or chopped
  • 1/2 tsp. chopped rosemary
  • 1 tsp. chopped sage
  • 1 bay leaf
  • 1 can diced tomatoes (14.5 oz)
  • 1 bunch kale, stemmed, washed, and chopped
  • 1/2 butternut squash, peeled and cut into ¼ inch cubes
  • 4 c water
  • 1 can cannellini or great northern beans, drained and rinsed
  • salt and pepper

Instructions

  1. Warm olive oil over medium heat and sauté onion until light gold, about 8 minutes. Add celery and carrots to pot with 2 tsp salt, and cook to a rich golden brown, about 8-10 minutes. Add kale, garlic, rosemary, bay leaf, and sage. Cook over med-low heat for about 5 minutes, taking care to keep the garlic and herbs from burning. Add water and tomatoes, turn up heat, and simmer for 15 minutes. Add squash and cook until tender, about 15 minutes. Then, add the beans and cook until heated through. Remove the bay leaf. If soup is too thick, thin with hot water. Serve in bowls, garnishing each with a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil and one spoonful grated Parmesan cheese. Variation: For a thicker soup, use two cans of beans.
  2. Warm olive oil over medium heat and sauté onion until light gold, about 8 minutes. Add celery and carrots to pot with 2 tsp salt, and cook to a rich golden brown, about 8-10 minutes. Add kale, garlic, rosemary, bay leaf, and sage. Cook over med-low heat for about 5 minutes, taking care to keep the garlic and herbs from burning. Add water and tomatoes, turn up heat, and simmer for 15 minutes. Add squash and cook until tender, about 15 minutes. Then, add the beans and cook until heated through. Remove the bay leaf. If soup is too thick, thin with hot water. Serve in bowls, garnishing each with a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil and one spoonful grated Parmesan cheese. Variation: For a thicker soup, use two cans of beans.

Inspirations

New York Times on disenfranchised grief

Slow Looking

Beauty in Grief 

The Nourishing Power of Gentleness

By Allison

blades of grass

©Danesh Mazloomdoost

“Once in a while we meet a gentle person.  Gentleness is a virtue hard to find in a society that admires toughness and roughness.  […] Gentle is the one who does ‘not break the crushed reed, or snuff the faltering wick.’  Gentle is the one who is attentive to the strengths and weaknesses of the other and enjoys being together more than accomplishing something.  A gentle person treads lightly, listens carefully, looks tenderly, and touches with reverence.  A gentle person knows that true growth requires nurture, not force.  Let’s dress ourselves with gentleness.”  –Henri Nouwen

 One evening several weeks back, I experienced a transformative moment that continues to stir in me.  It was a delicious fall evening.  The air was cooling, and the trees were still green.  Night had not fallen, but the blue hour was approaching.

My friend and I were leaving his office, laughing about God knows what.  When we stepped out, we encountered a young woman in crisis.  Her clothes hung off her bony frame, she was covered in sores, and she seemed to be doing some sort of distressed dance on the lawn.

I was startled and scared for her, and I froze.  My friend maintained his calm.  He approached her gingerly and asked what was wrong.  His voice was steady and soothing.

The young woman was apparently addicted to heroin, had been clean for seven months, and had recently relapsed after the death of her uncle.  She was sobbing.  Her story was disjointed, but her fear was clear.

She asked us to call an ambulance to take her to the University of Kentucky hospital.  As we waited with her, my friend maintained his compassionate, caring way.  He saw her, acknowledged her, and validated her.  He trod lightly, listened carefully, looked tenderly, and treated her with reverence.  Though I mostly stayed quiet, I held a space of compassion for both of them.

Within about 3 minutes, firefighters, EMTs, and police officers arrived.  The lights and sirens were jolting, and it must have been overwhelming for her to suddenly be surrounded by nine men in surgical masks.  But they were kind to her and helped her to the ambulance.  As she lay on the gurney, she thanked us profusely.

I have always admired my friend’s steady demeanor.  He is a gentle soul through and through.  That evening he reminded me that gentleness is life-giving.  His tender approach fortified a young person in crisis.  He helped her find the courage to wait for the ambulance and to maybe seek help. 

His gentleness also nourished me.  I witnessed its power to soothe and effect change.  After a long day at the office, he exercised focus, restraint, and compassion.  I aspire to this.  I have since deepened my commitment to gentleness and its beauty.  I imagine wearing it like a cloak, flowing softly and creating an aura of safety and tenderness.

Inspirations

Self-Soothing in Hard Times

Extreme Rest

Between, Within, Beneath

Harbinger

By Allison

forsythiaForsythias dotted my early pandemic walks.  Against a still-grey landscape, the vibrant flowers announced spring.  Hope was elusive as the coronavirus emerged, and seeing the forsythias in bloom gave me brief moments of respite.

One year later, it was jarring to see the lemony forsythia blooms peeking out once again.  How had a year of sameness passed?  Why was I feeling lackluster as the world awakened?  The heightened panic of 2020 and 2021 had numbed me, and I’d been plodding along in a pandemic haze.

This spring, the forsythias were painfully and pleasantly piercing.  The bright yellow shrubs shot me back to the scary days of last year, but they also brought optimism and a tiny bit of joy.  Forsythias are harbingers of spring.  Often the first flowers to bloom, they announce a new season.  They instill anticipation.  And, for me, they cultivate hope.

The word harbinger comes from the Old French word herbergier—to provide lodging for.  If you’re a French speaker, think of the words auberge or hospice—spaces of protection and care.  In English, the word harbor echoes the sentiment of shelter.  Before this spring, I had never understood that a harbinger could serve as both herald and protector.  This spring and last, fiery forsythia flowers anchored my outings.  Never had I found so much solace in the landscape.  Never had nature been so comforting to me.

In Kentucky, the forsythia shrubs have mostly turned green—already!  Though spring colors are fleeting, the season’s marvels continue to serve as an escape from the traumas of late-stage pandemic life.  The birdsong invigorates, and the dappled light inspires.  The world is alive!

Inspriations

Love Musings

Between, Within, Beneath

Pandemic Language

 

Resting Bench

By Allison

banc-reposoir Alsace“I am that living and fiery essence of the divine substance that glows in the beauty of the fields.  I shine in the water, I burn in the sun and the moon and the stars.”  –Hildegard of Bingen (1098-1179)

The bancs-reposoirs (“resting benches”) of Alsace are sandstone memories of 19th-century peasant life.  Spaced about 2 kilometers apart on well-traveled ways, the benches provided a place of rest for farmers headed into town on market day.  Women, who carried their goods in baskets on their heads, placed them on the lintel topping the structure.  The resting benches were often shaded by linden trees.

Throughout Alsace, about 170 bancs-reposoirs remain, built in 1811 and 1854.  Found along a windy road in Hilsenheim, France, this bench offered a moment of respite to people carrying a heavy load.  Visiting it in the 21st century, I try to imagine the trek to the next town and the weight of the wheat and bran the women carried on their heads.  What emotional burdens weighed on them?  What were their passions?  Did they enjoy aspects of this work?

It goes without saying that there is a disparity in experience between 19th-century Alsatian peasants and a 21st-century college professor from across the ocean.  Though as I trace my finger on the lichen covering the stone, I remember that time is fluid and that in this spot, the centuries touch.  I sit on the same resting bench.  The landscape I take in resembles the backdrop of their lives—neat fields, spring greens, unruly grasses in the ditch.  They may have felt a similar May breeze on their skin.  Stone, place, and air connect us.

This moment also reminds me that rest is essential.  The world is currently burdened by a pandemic.  After almost a year of living in crisis mode, we need to sit on our own figurative resting benches.  Let us stop and catch our breath.  Let us remember our fiery essences.  Let us also be still and smile, seeing how we glow in the fields, shine in the water, and burn in the heavens.

 

Pandemic Life: Self-Soothing

By Allison

light on floorLike many of you, I am beginning my sixth week of extreme social distancing.  My work life, social life, and family life have all moved online.  I am very happy to maintain my connections with students, friends and family.  My advanced literature course has turned into a fabulous Zoom book club discussing Zola’s Le Ventre de Paris (The Belly of Paris).  And raucous family happy hours (“cocktail hour” as Mom calls it) launch me into each weekend.

Yet in spite of the abundance of positive and supportive interactions, I’ve had to find ways to keep my pandemic anxiety at bay.  I’m coming to understand that when daily existence is dramatically different from anything we’ve previously known, we must call on our own spiritual or philosophical foundations and tap into our personal strength as a means to soothe ourselves.  I expect that you each practice your own calming rituals.  Today I share a few of mine, as a few of you may want to adopt and adapt one of these practices.

Long Walks and Audio Books

Reading has always been my balm, but with a heavier work load, expanded screen time, and physical stagnation, I’ve found it very difficult to settle down with a book.  Audio books have rescued me!  Every day that it doesn’t rain, I walk for an hour and listen to an audiobook, borrowed from my public library.  All of my pandemic reading has been escapist:  The Most Fun We Ever Had (Claire Lombardo), The Burning Chambers (Kate Mosse), and A Long Petal of the Sea (Isabel Allende).  A family drama, an historical novel set in Toulouse, and the great Chilean author’s most recent novel.  Each and every one has been a joyful, intriguing read.

No Waste Kitchen

My grandma always said that cooking was her therapy.  It’s my therapy too, but I’ve had to change my approach during the pandemic.  I can’t pop out to the grocery store on a whim like I used to.  I must work with what I have on hand, and I have become very strict about waste in my kitchen.  No parsley stem goes unused.  Each and every knob of ginger gets worked into a dish, and I constantly strategize about how I can best use freezer space.  Some of my meals have been deliciously memorable.  A few have flopped.  But each and every day, the process has been grounding.

Reading with Nora

Before the coronavirus, I had never taught small children.  But when I learned that my six year-old niece Nora wouldn’t be in school for the foreseeable future, my duty as aunt and educator inspired me to step into the role of first grade reading teacher.  Every morning at 11:00 Nora FaceTimes me, and we spend 30-40 minutes working on reading and writing.   We’ve found a pleasant, loose rhythm in our class.  We take turns reading to each other from the Scholastic Learn at Home program, and then we move to a more advanced Beverley Clearly book:  Beezus and Ramona.  Nora reads most of the dialogue, which is challenging without becoming frustrating.  And I read the rest.  Some days she is enthralled!  I’ve learned to be flexible in my pedagogy.  Some days she just wants to tell me about walking in the woods with her dad or building a snowman.  Other days, writing and drawing take precedent over reading.  A few days ago, she wanted to make a prank phone call to Uncle Jack, so we did.  For me, the priority is keeping everything fun and wrapping up the lesson when I see Nora’s attention lagging.  The regularity and lightness of our class has been stabilizing for me.  Although I have always felt that I know Nora well, I am getting to know her better each week.  Not just as an aunt, but as a first-grade reading teacher and as a confidant.

Tea.  Always Tea.

I have long been a devoted tea drinker.  My favorite tea shop is still shipping and offering curbside pickup, so my tea cupboard is staying stocked.  I have also used long days at home to dig deep into my tea collection.  I’ve pulled out rare oolongs that need multiple steepings to bring out their nuances; I’ve dug into samples that tea friends have gifted me in the last few years; this afternoon I sipped a wild Pu-erh from my friend Nana Ding’s Strasbourg shop.  The ritual of preparing tea is soothing in itself, but scientific research is beginning to demonstrate the health benefits of tea that come from caffeine, EGCG, and L-theanine.

How are you self-soothing these days?

Yin Perspective

By Allison

stained glass angelThe depth of nothingness is directly related to the experience of everythingness. —Matthew Fox

On the cusp of winter, I feel myself falling into a state of yin—darkness, passivity, slowness, and cold.  Although I usually give into my yang tendencies—speed, light, energy, action—these deliciously still yin moments bring balance.  They allow me to integrate the experience of everythingness.  I settle, I breathe, I go within.  When my mind finally clears, I sink into the depth of nothingness.  In this state, breath trumps thought.  Sleep comes easily, and every so often I catch glimpses of how life’s pieces fit together.

Shifting to a yin awareness is not necessarily comfortable and definitely not easy.  Mind and body resist the quiet descent to dense nothingness.  When my instinct is to pursue and achieve, the breath helps me to yield and allow.  In my emptiness, breath swirls, clears, and cleanses.  My yin perspective becomes regenerative, making space for creativity.  Winter is dreary and cold, but when we nourish yin, this dark season reveals its abundant creative potential.

Inspirations

Hygge for One

Tea Meditation

Original Blessing by Matthew Fox

The Complete Guide to Yin Yoga by Bernie Clark