Autumn leaves turn green to gold to rust. A bluebell clings to summer’s embrace.
The calendar turns another page. Memory clings to falling beauty.
The seasons turn. The sun rises and sets and rises again. The river flows and freezes and flows again, a fluid stream of time flowing freely through memory’s frozen banks.
The end becomes the beginning of spring becoming the end again and again.
And through it all, beauty ripples in seasonal glory unblemished by memories of clinging vines locked in winter’s icy kisses.
I have spent much of my life trying to fit in. Trying to conform and belong, and to feel comfortable in my own skin. To find purpose. To discover my dreams and live them, fearlessly.
It’s been quite a journey!
Recently I was asked if I would consider sitting on the board of a not-for-profit. It’s in a sector I’m passionate about. It’s an issue I care about deeply.
I declined.
There are other ways for me to give back to community without immersing myself in the politics, grind and gristle of making change happen.
For many years, Kerry Parsons, my dear wise friend and amazing founder of The Academy of Emerging Women, would caution me about becoming too to ‘the pain body’. I didn’t really understand what she meant but would usually answer, “I’m not attached to it. I’m like a piece of Swiss cheese. I let the pain flow through me so I can nourish the whole.”
We don’t know what we don’t know until we step out of what we believe we know to see how much we don’t know, or don’t see, because we think we know it all. (Whew. That’s quite a convoluted sentence!)
Recently, while walking with another wise woman who was also once my boss and who is one of the most intelligent people I know, I was asked how long it took me after leaving the formal workplace to know what I wanted to do.
I laughed.
“I’m still working on that one,” I told her. I also told her that it took me a year just to get to a place where I didn’t feel like I wanted to be pulled back into the fray of the homeless-serving sector. Like my unique talents and gifts weren’t essential to ending homelessnss.
Fact is, others have stepped into the spaces I held and doing a mighty fine job of ‘the work’. Yes, their way might be different than mine. The truth is, every way makes a difference. Every way matters. And every way has value and benefits that my way could not achieve.
For me, after almost 20 years working in the homeless-serving sector and not-for-profit, I’m done.
Yup. Done.
Woo Hoo! It’s only taken me a year and a bit after leaving the workplace to be able to see that statement is my truth today.
I’ve come a long way baby.
I also told my friend that one of the things I realized about six months into my ‘rejuvenation journey’ was that I was addicted to the stress, chaos and turmoil of working in the sector. I was, as my dear friend Kerry suggested and I denied, “attached to the pain body.”
There is a belief that says you can’t get rid of a bad habit without replacing it with something more nourishing and healthy.
To replace my ‘pain body attachment’ habit, I am employing, deploying, engaging my joy muscles. I am all into attaching my body, mind, spirit, soul and vital essence to joy.
Like a wildflower in a field of plenty, I am growing wild and free. I am joyfully swaying with the winds of change sweeping through my entire being. Like a child dancing in front of her adoring parents’ eyes, I am flinging my arms above my head, leaping wildly in the air and screaming out loud in joyful abandon, “Watch me grow!”
No matter the season, prayers dispel the darkness and open our hearts to Love. — Two page spread in altered book art journal, My Mother’s Prayers
I am an experiential learner. I love to try new things. To combine different processes. To learn and challenge what I think I know by expanding upon the things I learn along the way.
I don’t follow instructions well. I don’t walk trodden paths with comfort.
Creating the altered book journal, “My Mother’s Prayers” has been a gift and a learning experience.
When I began, I thought I’d just be using my mother’s prayer cards as emphemera on each page. I wanted to honour her and to somehow enshrine her cards in a way that would preserve them, and perhaps enlighten me as to her true nature.
I have been blessed.
The cards and the process has become so much more than just a ‘task’ or an art project.
It’s become enlightening, nourishing and healing.
I always balked when my mother said she’d pray for me. I thought her prayers were a judgement of me. I thought she was praying for me constantly because she thought I was a horrible human being, an awful daughter, sister, mother, person.
The ‘art corner’ at Num-Ti-Jah Lodge
In working with her prayer cards, in allowing myself to be present to the images, their messages and to the process of creating each page with a loving heart, I am discovering a new perspective.
Her prayers weren’t a condemnation of me. They were the only way she knew how to express her love.
It’s one of the many things I love about the creative process. An idea sparks something and from that ‘something’, new awareness, insights, understanding blossom as I deepen into being present within and with whatever is unfolding.
In this case, I feel a deep, soulful shift within. No longer do I experience her prayers as a condemnation of my human condition, I am being gifted the experience of hearing them as her way of saying “I love you and want always the best for you.”
There was a deep gulf of misunderstanding between my mother and me. One of the things she often said to me was, “Why can’t you be more like the others? [my brother and sisters] Why do you have to do it your way?”
She struggled with my experiential learning essence. She feared for me constantly because I love to push limits. To test boundaries. To challenge what is in search of what is possible.
For me, it is just my way. To my mother, I was always in danger. And mothers are hardwired to keep their children safe. I realize now how often she must have felt helpless – she couldn’t keep me safe if I was constantly putting myself in danger.
My mother’s way was scary to me. I didn’t want to walk her path. And in being so vocal and I admit, obnoxious about not wanting ‘her way’, I wasn’t able to give her what she wanted most — peace to walk the path she was on, trying to keep her family safe by engaging God with every step. She wanted to live deeply embedded in her faith. I didn’t want any of that!
And I smile.
In retrospect, (though I thought I was being pretty random) I realize that it is no accident that the book I chose to use for this altered art book journal is called, “Contentment: A guide to finding the path to peace of heart..” The closing quote is from Henry David Thoreau, “Many men go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.”
Most of my life I kept fishing for my mother to tell me she loved me — My way.
In creating this journal with her prayer cards, by being present to their beauty and their gifts, I am discovering my mother always loved me the best way she knew how — Through her prayers.
One of the gifts of art journalling (and there are many) is how it offers up ample opportunity to explore your creative nature without judgement interfering with your discovery.
Ok. Let me reframe that. It offers up ample opportunity to see where judgement interferes with your discovery. In the process, you get to choose to explore your discovery of its limitations, or not.
This two-page spread began differently. It was going to be a simple, uncluttered background of flowers. I was working it. I mean workin’ it hard. I had a vision. An outcome. A goal. I was going to make it so.
And then, it became a reflection of what I wanted it to become, not the flow of what it was becoming. That’s when judgement stepped in and decided I wasn’t working hard enough.
So I dug in. Worked it some more until eventually, all my ‘hard’ work became a really big messy, cluttered ‘ YUCK!’
I painted over the whole thing with a thin layer of white paint thinking I’d just ‘start again’.
And then, I went for a walk and found the yellow flowers that appear on the page growing wild amidst a grove of poplars by the river.
I picked a few and kept smelling and admiring them as I walked home with Beaumont, the Sheepadoodle.
Their smell was redolent of children playing in fields of wildflowers dancing in the sun. Their colour felt like I was bathing in liquid forest.
They were calling for me to preserve them so, I hauled out my flower press and la voilá! They became the focal point of my page.
They also became the path through which I found harmony and flow within my creative exploration.
See, it would have been easy to give into my internal critics yammering about how bad the page was and just give up by painting over it entirely.
The critter would have been happier. It likes ‘the win’.
But the still quiet voice of knowing and grace would have been saddened by my ‘giving up’. It would not have criticized me, the still quiet voice of knowing and grace doesn’t criticize. It only presents me with opportunities to grow through myself. To discover new and more gentle ways of being me.
The words for this page were always floating on the periphery. They were always about a garden of prayers, but it wasn’t until I took the photo and decided not to write them on the page and instead worked in Photoshop that they gained clarity.
The lesson being… Creative expression is one part the doing, one part alchemy and one part faith.
Summer days swiftly turn into cooler nights, harbingers of autumn’s fast approach.
This morning, as I sit at my desk, the river flowing past in glacier green beauty, I see no rafters floating by. Just the branches of the trees bending in the cool morning wind gusting in from the north.
I hear the sound of the leaves whispering stories of the wind to the squirrels running up and down their trunks. They are gathering food for their long winter’s nap.
The sky hangs low, laden with pregnant grey clouds waiting to release their bounty on the earth below.
And I am warm and snug inside, wrapped in the bliss of watching leaves dance on trees and water flowing by.
Savouring these small graces of my morning view is my antidote to world events that stalk the edges of my peace of mind. They remind me that change is happening, even when I feel like the world is stuck in a bad movie.
In, Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer writes, “The Skywoman story, shared by the original peoples throughout the Great Lakes, is a constant star in the constellation of teachings we call the Original Instructions. These are not “instructions” like commandments, though, or rules; rather, they are like a compass: they provide an orientation but not a map. The work of living is creating that map for yourself. How to follow the Original Instructions will be different for each of us and different for every era.”
“The work of living is creating that map for yourself.”
I am wondering on my map. Wondering what words, images, sounds, feels, thoughts I would use to describe the map I am creating with my life.
It is good to wonder. It is good to explore my wonderings. To visualize and actualize my map.
What about you? Do you wonder about the map you are creating with your life?
It is not time that binds us but the memory of the songs we sang, the stories we told and the love we shared. — My Mother’s Prayers Art Journal
It has been awhile since I posted, and since I sat in my studio creating.
A two week sojourn in Vancouver visiting my eldest daughter and family and then, the long drive home.
I love the 1,000 km drive up over the Coastal Rockies, across the lake country, up over Roger’s Pass, Kicking Horse Pass and the Rockies down the eastern slopes and onto the rolling plains. I love the solitude, the sense of being alone yet part of the ribbon of highway leading me eastward, leading me home.
As I drive, I love to listen to podcasts. One in particular, ‘On Being‘ with Krista Tippet.
The interview she did with Dario Roletto who has been called a sculptural artist, philosopher, and “materialist poet” continues to resonate. In it, Robletto talks about the power of memory to connect us.
It is that thought which inspired my latest two-page spread in the altered book journal, “My Mother’s Prayers,” that I have been creating for the past month or so.
Time is not the thread that binds. Memory is.
I don’t have a lot of memories of my grandmother. I only met her once. She came from India where she lived when we were living in Metz, France. She stayed with us for a month and while with us, I remember her always sneaking my brother and sisters and I money to go buy something ‘sweet’. At least, that’s what I think I remember her saying.
I don’t know if she had a sweet tooth or not. I don’t remember.
What I do remember is being fascinated by this woman who was my mother’s mother who lived in such a far away and exotic land. I remember how she dressed mostly in black. How she fluttered her hands when she spoke, just like my mother and how, when we went to Paris to visit her sons who lived there, she sat in regal grace amidst her vast extended family.
I remember the story of my Uncle Noel getting a plague from the police for his excellent driving and how everyone scoffed and laughed when it happened.
The day he got the award, the police were assessing drivers on the roads of Paris in an attempt to identify those who were obeying the rules of the road (a very uncommon practice in Paris) in an effort to encourage safe driving practices. My uncle had picked up Grandmother from the airport and was driving her back to Uncle Reggie’s apartment. An unmarked police car followed him, just that once, and he was awarded a safe driver citation. It was the only time in his driving career he did not speed, swear and gesture belligerently at other drivers and ignore all the road signs.
I also think that was the trip my brother stayed home alone for the first time. He ended up having a party that created quite a mess in our home. We brought Grandmother from Paris on that trip and when we entered the apartment and dad saw the mess, he was furious. Grandmother calmed him and thanks to her, George was not punished for his misdeeds.
It is perhaps that escapade that cemented the notion that ‘the sun rises and sets on the son’ in our household. Unfortunately, that notion would lead to a number of incidents and life travails that left him ill-equipped to handle the pressure.
But that’s another story.
This story is about my mother, my grandmother and me — Granddaughter. Daughter. Mother. Grandmother.
Just like my mother and grandmother. It is the thread of our being all of those roles that binds us. Unbreakable. Unchangeable. Inviolate.
As I journey through my mother’s prayer cards and my process of healing the ‘mother wound’ through remembering and honouring her life, her death and her memory through creative expression, I find myself softening. Ripening. Opening. Evolving.
It is a journey. An exploration. An awakening.
And I am grateful for it all.
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About this art piece.
“My Mother’s Prayers” incorporates the multitude of prayer cards that my mother collected throughout her life to guide her nightly prayers.
On every two page spread I include at least one card — some you can see, some I paint over entirely.
Throughout her life, my mother prayed. At times, I mocked her for her practice. Often, I challenged her offerings. It wasn’t until after I became a mother that my heart began to soften and understand her desire to keep me safe.
This page is about the trinity of being a daughter, mother, grandmother. Before affixing the heart behind the images of my grandmother, mother and me to the page, I tore it into three pieces and then reconnected it on the page.
Like life, our hearts can be hurt, feel heavy and broken. Yet, no matter how broken we feel, a mother’s heart is always open. Proving the adage true — a broken heart is an open heart and an open heart is a loving heart.
My mother loved deeply. Working on this journal is awakening me to her love on a very deep level.
Written on the upper right section of the heart are the words:
“Three pieces. One heart. Three lives. One song. Three stories. One prayer.”
My mother’s prayers whisper throughout time. They are the memory that binds us. The love that holds us. The gift that lives on.
One of the questions I ask myself when I’m feeling stuck or undecided about what to do next is, “What makes my heart want to dance?”
And then, I close my eyes, take a couple of deep slow breaths. In. Out. And listen.
I listen to my body, my heart, my skin, my heart.
I imagine myself sinking from my head down, down, down into my heart. Further still, I imagine my consciousness sinking down, down, down into my belly.
And I listen.
I listen to the sound my body makes as I breathe. In. Out. I listen to the sounds around me. The quiet hiss of my computer. The piano playing softly in the background. The leaves rustling outside my window. The hiss of traffic crossing the bridge. The birds cawing. The hum of the refrigerator. The purr of the furnace fan. The river flowing.
And I feel.
I feel the sensation of the air entering my body, up through my nose, down into my lungs. I listen to the sound my body makes as I breathe. In. Out. The feeling of my thoughts floating down, down, down, from my head into my body. The stillness within as I sit and embody all that I am. All that is here. All that is in this moment.
And then, when I feel myself settled deep within my body, when I feel my entire being held in silence and grace within the moment, I repeat the question, “What makes my heart want to dance?”
Yesterday, the answer surprised me. Not because it wasn’t about painting or creating. It was.
What surprised me was the image that rose up from my belly and made my heart want to dance.
My eldest sister found a couple of prayer cards from my mother in the room where she used to stay in when she was strong enough to go for weekend visits. One of the cards was ofSaint Thérèse de Lisieux, also known as, Saint Thérèse of the Child Jesus and the Holy Face.
When my mother left India in 1946, her father gave her a statue of St. Thérèse. It was standing by her bedside when she took her last breath.
St. Thérèse was named my patron saint when I took my confirmation when I was about 9 years old. “Pray to St. Thérèse” my mother would tell me in those moments when I was struggling or being a ‘bad girl’. “She is your heavenly advocate. She will help you.”
I didn’t like being called a bad girl and didn’t think a saint would actually call me that. I also wasn’t much into praying so I let my mother do the heavy lifting.
In later years, I left Catholicism behind but held onto the mystical, spiritual nature of life. Angels felt ‘real’ to me. I would call upon them to guide and support me, though I wasn’t too enamoured with the saints. I could not relate to their piety and as a consequence, seldom named St. Thérèse as my advocate.
And then, I fell into a pit of darkness of a relationship that almost killed me. I remember thinking in the really dark moments towards the end, that even death was too busy to bother with me. Why would the angels answer my pleas?
Of all the things I lost during that relationship, one of the one’s that has been the hardest to reclaim is my belief in the spiritual nature of life.
Creating this altered book art journal of my mother’s prayer cards is leading me back. It is connecting me to the spiritual essence of this journey called ‘my life’.
Yesterday, as I held the St. Thérèse prayer card in my hands, a tiny voice whispered in my mind, “And the angels heard her prayers and carried them to the wind who blew them all around the world in a song of love for humanity.”
And my heart danced and I began to create.
This morning, as I checked to ensure I spelled her name correctly and had the accents properly placed, I read the expanded quote written on the card. Words spoken by St. Thérèse de Lisieux before she died at the age of 24. Words I hadn’t read before I started painting…
“When I die, I will send down a shower of roses from the heavens, I will spend my heaven by doing good on earth.”
“Rest Here” – Watercolour and acrylic ink on watercolour paper.
When I started painting 20 years ago, I had spent most of my life saying… “I am not an artist. I am a writer, but have no artistic ability.”
And then, on a whim and a desire to spend more time with my eldest daughter, I picked up a paint brush loaded with colour and fell in love.
Yesterday, as I sat at my studio worktable and debated whether to follow the guidelines of the online course I’m taking with Laura Horn or ‘just do it my way, I could hear the critter winding up his full-on, ‘You Can’t Do That’ diatribe in preparation for letting me have it, ‘the full truth and nothing but the truth about my artistic limitations. “You are not a watercolour artist,” he hissed. “You don’t even like working in watercolour. Why don’t you just skip the watercolour and play with your acrylic inks. It’s safer that way. You won’t be disappointed or look like a fool.”
The only way I know to quiet the critter is to breathe and acknowledge his fears.
“I hear you. I know you’re just trying to protect me but I’ve got this. I won’t know if I like them or not until I at least attempt to learn how to work with them. I’ve got this.”
The critter was not quite ready to call it quits. “You don’t got this! It’s bad enough you think you’re an artist but seriously… Well there are so many real artists out there who are so much better than you. They at least sell their work. You? You can’t even get it up onto your Etsy site so people can buy it.”
“Oh that’s what this is about? Not having my art up on my Etsy page?”
“Well you gotta admit Louise, you’re a bit of a disappointment there. Know what I mean?”
And a deep primordial fear awoke within me the longer I listened to the critter’s voice. “Oh no! I am a disappointment!”
I felt that fear. It felt so real. So tangible. So true.
And the the wise woman of care and courage whispered deep within me, “You are never and can never be a disappointment,” the wise woman of care and courage whispered deep within me. “What feels disappointing is when you do not give yourself grace to explore, test your boundaries, and use your mistakes to grow deeper in your understanding and communion with you, your life and the world around you.
And then…
I loaded my palette with watercolours and fell in love.
This morning I awoke from a dream vibrating with a deep awareness of all the lessons yesterday’s exploration of watercolour taught me.
And I smile in gratitude. Calling myself ‘an artist’ doesn’t mean I know it all or have all the answers or have even done it all or explored all the possibilities of my art-making. It means I’m open to the full and intoxicating exploration of my creative essence.
The lessons…
Sometimes you just gotta load your fear up with a bunch of paint and let the colours play it out on the canvas of life.
Just because you say you can’t doesn’t mean it’s true.
Don’t believe everything you think.
It’s okay to not know. You can’t learn all sides of the truth if you tell yourself you already know them all.
Truth reveals itself slowly, like a rose coming into full-boom. It needs care and time, nature’s grace and a willingness to be surprised by what is coming into bloom so that it can evolve into its full beauty.
Life is like your palette. Load it up with yummy colours. Mix them up to your heart’s content and let them dance with wild abandon on the canvas of your wildest dreams come alive in living colour.
When you think you’ve gone as far as you dare, dare to go deeper.
You are not, and can never be, a disappointment. End of story.
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About the painting.
The following two photos are of the different stages of this painting where I wanted to quit.
At this one, I thought, “Oh. I like it. What if I mess it up?” Problem was… the lesson I was on called for botanicals and painting over the background… Breathing through my fear of messing it up, I dove deeper.
Hmmm…. This looks good. Why don’t I just leave it at this point?
And… I dove deeper.
I’m grateful I did. I learned a lot.
_________________________________
PS. As to my Etsy store… I’m going to work on loading it up and have it launched properly by September 15. That’s a commitment! To me.
When I sat down at my studio worktable yesterday morning, there was one phrase that kept drifting through my mind, “And her prayers became the song the night sang to sing the stars awake.”
I pulled out the altered book journal I’ve been working on with my mother’s prayer cards and gave myself over to the muse.
It did not start out well…
You know how you can be working on something and think, “hmmmm…. It’s okay but I’m not really sure what I’m doing here…”
My first instinct is to quit. To paint over. To tear it up.
My deeper knowing is to keep deliving into it. To allow myself to work through the ‘yucky’ to get to whatever is looking to be expressed.
When I do that, it happens. Like magic. There’s this moment where I feel so connected and so immersed in it all that my heart sings and my soul dances and my body sinks deeply into gratitude.
Yeah? Well, yesterday, that happened.
There I was, feeling stuck and blah when without thought, I felt my entire being sink effortlessly into that place. Breathing deeply, I felt the silence expand between my heart beat’s steady tattoo as my soul seemed to hang suspended in time. I felt as though I was floating in harmony with the universe and all of life surrounding me. My senses awoke to the moment and I sighed and whispered to the sun and the clear blue sky and the breeze drifting by as the leaves whispered their incantations of love and ease and bliss, “Ohh. I see you. I feel you. I know you. Here I am.”
And in that moment I felt the breath of my mother’s prayers wrap me in their sweet tender embrace and the world felt oh so precious, oh so sacred, oh so new and fresh. And I felt embodied in the present moment, connected, in partnership, part of and all of the trees and the leaves, the breeze and the sky, the river floating by, the chickadee perched on the birdfeeder and the squirrel spinning in acrobatic grace through the branches of the trees.
In that moment, I was embodied in ‘the now’. At one. Complete. Part of. All of. Connected. Whole.
“And her prayers became the song the night sang to sing the stars awake.”
Watercolour and acrylic ink on watercolour paper.
And then, later in the afternoon, my dear friend Jane came over to paint outside. And it happened again. I was one with the embodied present. Whole. Complete. Filled with a sense of harmony and peace.
That’s what creating is — it’s not about outcome, or style, or technique or saleability.
It’s about being present within the journey of creating. Being connected and whole.
And it’s about community.
Both these pages were created as part of two different courses I’m taking. When I shared the spread from My Mother’s Prayers on my Instagram yesterday, an artist friend wrote back,
“My spiritual community both soothes my soul and lights new fires.” Tracy Brown
“I put my Instagram artist friends in this category”, she said.
Yes.
Being present is about connection, community, coherence.
Thank you for being part of my community. For taking this journey with me. For illuminating my path with your light and making it easier to see in the dark.
An exploration with watercolours — two colours only. Quinacridone Gold and Dioxane Purple +White +Black
Life is a journey that teaches us as we go.
Some lessons are worth repeating so that they can continue to enrich our lives every day. Some lessons… well, they’re best not to be repeated.
There are so many lessons that have informed and enriched my life. Here are some of my favourite go to’s.
Walk in Gratitude
Gratitude is the gateway to a peaceful heart. It forms a foundation for joy, peace, contentment.
Be grateful for all things in your life, including the things you’ve encountered that leave you feeling bruised and weary. Their presence is a reminder that life isn’t all about sunrises that take your breath away and sunsets that close in magic. It’s also about dark and stormy nights that force you to stretch and bend and bow like a willow tree in the rain. When we bend and stretch we become more supple and strong.
Be grateful for the storms.
2. Let Forgiveness Soften Your Heart
Sometimes, we tell ourselves that holding onto anger will make us feel better. It’s not true.
Anger corrodes. It hardens our muscles and the heart is a muscle. Let forgiveness wash away the pain so that your body can move freely and your heart beat easily.
And that includes forgiving yourself. Always. We all make mistakes. We all do things we wish we hadn’t. Don’t lock yourself into a cage of anger. Open the gate to forgiveness and let the anger wash away. In its absence your heart will have more room for grace and love to buoy you up.
Forgive yourself for the harsh words you speak about yourself. Forgive yourself for your mistakes. Forgive yourself and let the anger wash away so that beauty can revive and restore you.
3. Seek Beauty
It doesn’t matter how dark the night or stormy the day, there is beauty in all things. Sometimes, we just have to change our perspective or find a safe harbour to weather the storm. In that safe harbour there is beauty. In that new way of looking at what ever you judge as having gone wrong, there is beauty to be found. Seek it.
And don’t forget to say thank you for the every day beauty of your life. Gratitude is a healing balm for your heart and soul. It makes a beautiful walk in the park out of every day and opens us up to seeing the world with fresh new eyes.
4. Be Curious
There is so much that is fascinating in this world around us.
Why is the sky blue?
Where does love go when it dies? Can it die?
Why do zebra’s have stripes and giraffes have spots?
Be curious. About everything. People. Animals. Nature. Things. Life.
5. Explore Your Inner World
Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”
Why did he say that? Where? Who wrote it into his speech? (remember – be curious)
What does that statement mean to you?
Examine it. Ask yourself, am I willing to take the voyage into my heart to discover new territory? To uncover old pains and hurts so that I can live my life freely in the wonder and beauty of today?
You are the person you spend the most time with. How ‘clean’ are your thoughts about you? How lovingly do you speak to yourself?
Give yourself the grace of loving yourself unconditionally and let your true light shine bright.
6. Give Grace
Grace is an ineffable and ephemeral attitude/disposition in life. Its presence creates space for wonder and awe, its light opens up your world to beauty and love.
Grace, as defined by some is ‘unwarranted mercy’.
Give yourself the grace of mercy. It is the ultimate form of self-compassion. Give it freely to yourself and all the world around you.
We are just mere humans. Taking this walk daily. Sometimes, we struggle. Sometimes, we don’t. Always, our inherent nature is todo our best.
In grace, our best is never judged as lacking. It is seen as being a reflection of who we are, where we are and how we are in the moment. And when our best pales in comparison to our judgements of where we need to be in this moment, use grace as your doorway to finding your self-compassion.
When we know better, we do better.
Let grace open you up to your better so that you can shine brightly for all the world to see the path around you is illuminated in Love.
We each need to shine brightly to create a better, brighter, kinder world.
Give grace. Love yourself for all you’re worth.
7. Love Always
There is no space for judgement, discrimination, condemnation, violence to grow when Love is present.
Love always. And in your choice to love always, trust that love always wins, even when the night is dark and long, even when the storm is fierce, even when the path is hidden in shadows, trust in Love and let love lead the way.
Namaste.
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I created the watercolour painting above as part of a course I’m taking with Laura Horn (fabulous course!)
I am not a watercolour artist, (she said to herself) when she signed up for the course.
Fear of looking stupid. Of not doing something well. Of being awkward, ‘less than’, almost held me back from signing up.
I am so grateful I signed up. I’m still going through the first week of course material and I am learning so much about composition, colour theory, and staying out of judgement.
If I’d let my fear direct me, I wouldn’t have signed up.
I’m grateful I gave myself the grace of not being perfect and chose instead to love myself enough to experience and learn something new.
What about you? Are you willing to give yourself grace?
Dare Boldly 