Me and some of my first "people."
My cousins Andrew and David, and my brother Michael.


P is for...
P is for pain. For people. For patience. And for pedaling. P is for publish.

Note: I wrote the following about 8 weeks ago. And I sat on it. I stymied my voice once again. I hear my friend Teresa circa 1995, “What if Philip Roth (one of my then-favorite writers) kept his writing in a box under the bed?” Ouch. The message then, and here, still applies.

Moving is hard. From the mundane – finding the bank, to the spiritual – finding your people. It is work. Lately, I’ve been wrestling with "what to do?" From the to-do list that never gets done, to the big questions: What is my profession? What is my purpose? And are they the same thing? Do I still do what I’ve always done?

I shared my feelings of sadness and uncertainty – of missing Chicago, missing what is familiar. Of missing my clients. My Weight Watcher members. Of missing "just knowing" – with a friend.

I told her I was doing everything I knew to do, and I still felt awful. She replied, "What about your soul? What are you doing that is creative? That moves you? That fills you?"

I think I heard a thud. And then replied, "Nothing."

I came home, sat on my deck and started journaling about nothing in particular. And then, blessed with a sunny Seattle day, I jumped on my bike. The words started to come.

My newsletter. My creative juice. My writing. My answers. It rarely happens in front of the computer. More often I’m pumping my legs. Or I’m in the trees.

My husband told me that this is how Canadian singer-songwriter Julian Cope wrote music in the 1980s. He rode his bike, and the lyrics would come. He stopped at pay phones along the way, singing messages – lyrics –into his answering machine.

Pedaling. People. Patience. Those were my words.

I want the change to happen now. And it doesn’t. I want to be comfortable NOW. And I’m not. It took time to become a Chicagoan. It takes time to become who we are meant to be.

I’ve been pushing way too hard. Thinking I’m going to bulldoze my way through pain. That I’m going to think my way into what it is I’m meant to do. Not so.

Turns out, I need to do less. Less pushing. More playing.

And I needed people to tell me that. I couldn’t/wouldn’t see it on my own. As a bodyworker, I’ve long known that pain is a messenger – a sign that something is off, something is out of balance. But I can’t always transcribe my own message.

Play. Pray. Pedal. People. Patience. Persevere. (And publish – Yes, I just added that in this read through.). This is my prayer.

  • What is your pain?
  • What are you trying to push through?
  • How might you play a little more?
  • What is your prayer?

Tell me. For you are my people.

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