My shoulders settle down my back and my heart lifts at the clickity-clack sound of my fingers dancing across my laptop.

My ring turns on my right hand, so that the family heirloom diamonds point down and towards the softer skin of my palm. I twirl it back into place with my pinkie but it slips back and I don’t care.

I feel my head settle down and into my heart space as I anticipate purging myself through words.

Sometimes life requires purging. 

I sink into my chair with my tall spine jetting up towards the sky; my posture only slightly slumped at my tired shoulders, but it’s more of a softening and a giving in to my need to write and open up than a wilting droop.

Because sometimes life makes me want to envelop myself in bedsheets and tears and drown myself in slow, steady-thumping music as my chosen backdrop.

And then I’m driving down the windy road and feeling this need to blast the music too loudly for the little girl safely nestled in a carseat behind me.

I want to roll down the windows and feel every ounce of wind that I can across my flying, tangled hair and I want to drive off, away from the rising sun, towards a place that awaits in the shadows; calmer, gentler than the life of my past few weeks.

But I can’t.

I learned a long time ago that we cannot run away from our problems or from ourselves and that this only serves to prolong inevitable discomfort.

So I keep the music at a more moderate level and tell my daughter in the backseat that I love her.

I place my hands consciously at ten o’clock and two o’clock and drive to the yoga studio to drop off a few more copies of my just-released book and then to our local eyeglass shop instead of towards some imaginary oasis of pure fun and end-of-summer laughter.

But how do I eradicate my tensions and my stresses, and my over-filled life, when I no longer want to run my feet into splints or starve myself sick or drink too much wine while cooking dinner?

How do I become clean and new in my skin—right now—and my heart and my over-worked brain? 

The shower I took kind of worked.

I let the water wash over me as I quickly rinsed off, and I felt a little bit lighter in my stuck emotions as I toweled off my  dripping hair.

And that long, deep drink of water felt nice.

The soft feel of it on my tongue and the releasing it brought to my dry throat made the center of my chest soften just a touch.

But these are temporary fixes—just like alcohol and pounding the pavement.

Sure, there are long-term benefits to appropriate exercise and I’m not one to diminish the joys of moderate drinking either, but, still, when I go to bed tonight my problems will still be there and their weight will not have lessened.

So I’ll open up a book, after turning on just enough light to read by; holding the loved, worn pages up to my nose as I transport myself out of my bedroom.

I’ll let my eyes droop for too long until I finally admit that I need to flip off the light and, putting my book to the side, finally curl up under my bedsheets.

I’ll will my pre-slumber thoughts to be positive—things that conjure my gratitude and my love for my inhabited human skin—as I feel the way that my body tingles right before I fall asleep.

And maybe I’ll remember a few of my black-and-white dreams or maybe I’ll get up once or twice to use the bathroom, but when I wake, in the soft grey light of my bedroom, I’ll have a split moment in time before the sleepy fog clears and my mind once again turns to my everyday reality, and in that instance I’ll have purged myself of my yesterday.

So maybe, sometimes, we can’t do much to move forward from our troubles.

Instead, we dig in our heels and feel it all and hold the people we love tightly.

We let tears fall and we do, from time to time, roll all the windows down in the car and turn the music up too much.

And we acknowledge that tomorrow will be different from today, even if we don’t purposefully seek out this change. 

We recognize, too, that our daily choices of health and joy help attract these things back into our lives, but, equally, we understand that life is often beyond the control of our own two hands (no matter how well placed at ten o’clock and two o’clock).

I notice that my diamond stones—the ones that even my great-great grandfather wore—are once again perched on the top of my finger, and I honestly don’t know if they rolled back on their own or if I unconsciously shifted them back there while my fingers danced.

I observe, too, how my shoulders round a little bit more and, glancing at the time, I note my readiness for the evening to be enclosed in darkness.

And I tell myself that tomorrow will rise up new and clean and pure from today’s ashes, simply by my continuing to put one foot in front of the next.

Because sometimes that’s all we can do.

This article was first published by elephant journal.

Photo: João Lavinha/Flickr.

The post When All We Can Do Is Keep Walking. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I close my eyes and exhale completely.

For a turn of a page in time, I am still.

I am quiet and ready to tackle anything.

Then I allow my eyes to open and the first thing I see is her, sitting on our TV stand playing with candles and Little People.

My heart dances and I know that no matter what lies ahead for me—or for her—that this space—this paused moment to breathe, expand my lungs with air, and take in everything around me—is what makes my life feel fulfilling.

The places in my life that I have wanted to run away from—and those instances when I’ve wanted to pound the pavement away from myself—are, strangely, the places that have lasted the longest.

Surely this is partially due to the discomfort within my circumstances or my heart, but, equally, life’s discomfort lasts much, much longer when we turn away from being present within our pain.

Drinking, starving, overeating, exercising—these are all ways that we can attempt to escape our reality, but none of them work. Instead, we become entangled—entrenched—further and further in misery by adding weight onto our burdens rather than lightening them.

Some pain cannot be relieved overnight.

Some pain, in my experience, seemingly takes a lifetime to dissolve, and some I’m not convinced ever really gets alleviated in one human experience.

But we have no choice.

To be our best versions of ourselves, and to live our best days, we must feel it all.

I have to hold my disquieted heart in my exposed hands and understand that part of my life is about experiencing sorrow, grief, anger and a plethora of ugly heart-impressions that hang out inside of a human interior.

I feel these sensations, and then I feel their opposites.

I feel the way that my soul seems to rise up into the crown of my head from indescribable joy; filling up every nook and crevice of my being.

And I feel everything in between, including my more frequent, average-day disposition.

So as I prepare to close the book of this day, I contemplate where I sit, right now.

And as I sit here writing this the tears are clouding behind my eyes and now slightly blurring my vision and now falling gently down my cheeks, and I know that I’m still holding onto certain emotions—and I’m okay with that.

I’m alright with my slightly tense neck and, also, my buoyant heart—bolstered by a day of love from the little girl perched on top of the TV stand.

I accept that today I stood in my frustration. I walked with my resentments. I held hands with my hurt and my guilt. Because, at the end of my day, when I turn another page the words that settle there are mine to write—and I can’t wait to see what tomorrow helps me compose.

Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

This article was first published by elephant journal.

The post To Turn the Page, We Must Feel it All. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

“To stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge—that is the path of true awakening.”

~ Pema Chodron

There are some mornings when you wake up and you’re not really sure how you feel yet—the sky isn’t quite dark, but it’s also not yet light.

You’re awake and ready to move and make coffee, but you’re not close to alert or mentally crystal clear.

You had a mixture of strange dreams, compiled of family members’ faces you miss and subconscious hopes you didn’t even know were there until they so unexpectedly popped up into your night.

You’re excited about your afternoon plans and saying good morning to your daughter, but you can’t fully explain why you still feel a little mopey and kind of…heart-achy.

And what do you do? When you feel that your day and your mindset could potentially go in several directions? You do this:

1. You get out of bed—after lying there for a moment.

You let your possibly raw, tender or unexpressed feelings settle into your tissues and your conscious mind so that you’re able to be fully present in your life—able to deal with whatever comes up because you’re not hiding from yourself or your life—and then you get the f*ck up. You roll to your side, swing your legs over your bed and you. get. up.

2. You practice yoga.

Ideally, this is a real, physical yoga practice that involves breathing and moving through sun salutes and postures that are designed to release the aforementioned experiences from your tissues, so that you don’t carry around yesterday’s tensions and burdens. Yet here’s the secret: you can practice yoga in many different ways.

Just to name a few: ride a bike, walk on a scenic local trail, chew and taste every bite of your breakfast. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

3. You don’t let go.

You eventually do—maybe—but you remember for dear life—and you accept that.

I cannot help that I have a memory that hangs onto exact words from a conversation from years ago or the knowledge of exactly the way I felt in a situation, but let me tell you that pretending you don’t remember does no good. This is called denial.

Instead, be open to the reality that who you are might not be who you “want” to be. Jealousy, hurt, fear—these are all emotions that are extremely uncomfortable—but it’s much worse to pretend that they don’t exist.

Learn to acknowledge, accept and name what’s going on inside of yourself and your life, even if it’s not ideal or welcome.

4. Hug and kiss.

Hug your children. Kiss your husband good-bye before work. Hug your mother. Kiss your friend on her cheek. Cuddle your dog.

In short, never forget to live the true human experience of touch—we crave it because we need it.

5. Throw away your bucket list.

Oh, bucket lists, I really don’t like these. Why? Because you should already be living every single stinkin’ day like it’s your last. Will that mean climbing Mount Everest today? Hmmm, probably not since you have a nine o’clock meeting. On the other hand, does this concept shape your every interaction?

Will you kiss your husband good-bye after he irritated you because you never know what the day will bring? Not to be negative, but it’s true. This is the real world.

Will you take a chance and ask for that raise you know that you deserve (the proper way, of course) because you’ve decided to live your life to its fullest every day, and not just on your birthday and Christmas?

Live. Every. Damn. Day. Like. It’s. Your. Last. (And throw away your bucket list, please.)

6. Open your heart.

Okay, I don’t want to get all syrupy new-agey on you, but this is true: life hurts. It stings in fact. However, if you close and harden and become crotchety and bitter as you age, then you attract these type of people and experiences right back into your life. Open up your heart, even and especially when it hurts.

You got burned in love? Try again. You got fired from your job? Apply for a better one.

The world needs more people who aren’t afraid of pain and who know that they are resilient enough to survive, thrive and move on.

Be a phoenix not a lemming.

7. You are not too old or too young.

Ageism—another one of my arch nemeses. You are not too young to have your own thoughts and ideas and you are not too old to learn new things, to change or to simply love living. If people around you are telling you otherwise, find empathy for their obviously limited view of their own capabilities and shrug off their words—and then proceed to do whatever the hell you want.

8. Eat mindfully.

Eating disorders go in many directions. If you are ignoring your body’s hunger cues and eating foods that generally make your body feel bad, you are not doing yourself a service as far as pursuing your best day.

So yesterday was a day filled with poor choices? (Or maybe your life up to now has been?) So what. I can tell you from personal experience that our bodies are more regenerative than we often think and that effective change happens when you take baby steps, not running leaps. (You know, the old tortoise and the hare story.)

I look out the window and notice that the sky is definitely a brighter shade of grey. The looming, unforecasted rain casts a heaviness that I feel in my bones. (Literally, even my once-broken bones feel this weight.) I decide to let the mysterious melancholy that I feel wash over me and through me, rather than turning away from it.

I get up to make my coffee and I look forward to feeling its smooth, velvety texture roll over my tongue.

I breathe and feel my chest expand with air.

I dreamt in black and white last night—I always do. I dream in shades of grey.

This makes me aware that life is a spectrum and not two distinct colors. I want to see each shade for what they are, because that’s living my life—that’s being authentic and this truth and clarity make each day my best.

I sit with my loneliness and my own inner shades of grey because I know that living from this place allows me to move towards the end of the spectrum that I choose.

I believe that life is a choice.

We can’t always choose our circumstances and we might learn to shape and transform our feelings and thoughts through effort, but we still have to own up to our almost primal and instinctual reactions.

So you want to live your best day? Then be you. Feel you. Live every day right where you are.

“To truly laugh, you must be able to take your pain, and play with it!” ~ Charlie Chaplin

Photo: KittyKaht/Flickr.

This article was first published by elephant journal.

The post 8 Ways to Make Every Day Your Best Without Pretending You’re Happy or Letting Go. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

When Loss Inspires Guilt.

I found out this week about the loss of an old friend.

I haven’t spoken to this friend since high school, and I’m now in my 30s. I was surprised at the amount of sorrow I felt when hearing this news.

This isn’t the first one-time pal I’ve had to say a permanent goodbye to, and this isn’t the first time I’ve felt this feeling—guilt at my grief.

Loss becomes convoluted when you’re an outside party.

I think much of this guilt comes from digging deeply enough to ask myself if I’m sad for this person in the same way that I would be if I heard about an absolute stranger’s passing—in my compassionate connection with humanity rather than from my connection as a one one-time friend. Yet, when I discover that old memories and straggling recollections that I thought were long buried are indeed re-surfacing, I’m perplexed to find that I still feel guilt.

While this isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with this, it’s the first time I’ve dealt with it now, in this body, in this self, at this time. I’m older and in many ways, I know that I’m wiser. Still, this much earned insight takes a distinct backseat to feelings of undeserving.

Do I deserve to mourn when his family is clearly in terrible pain? The kind of pain that can only come from knowing someone well and daily—the kind of pain of the immediate family. My guilt wants me to answer “no,” but emotions are funny things—they have a habit of not listening to your head.

Instead, I find myself feeling the kind of unfortunate elation that accompanies times of tragedy; happiness that’s actually painful when coupled with the blurry edges of something like woundedness. Life becomes sharply in focus during times like this. Everything is so achingly and hauntingly gorgeous when placed beside suffering.

Bereavement highlights life’s delicate graces, but it’s still ugly and undesirable, and I often feel I’d much prefer the kind of average joy that comes from not knowing this partner, this opposite—the discomfort of anguish, but I don’t have a choice—and I do feel grief, even if I shouldn’t.

I swallow the lump in my throat and I release my guilt because it doesn’t help. Rather it makes these feelings that drudge up hard to own and accept—and move forward from.

I’m thankful that I’m on the peripheral of this grief, but I know in my heart that someday I’ll be right in the middle while others stand in my presently awkward situation. How will I feel when the tables are turned like this? I might feel angry. I might feel relief. The simple reality is that I don’t know how I’ll feel, and I don’t really want to think about it.

Because grief is uncomfortable and painful and terrible.

We can say that we find true happiness from pain or that pain is noble, but I know that I’d never choose it and I usually say these things to myself in order to survive falls that seem challenging to get back up from.

What will I do with my feelings? I’ll try to look my husband in the eye and validate him every day. I’ll try to find the good in everyone that I come across, especially when it’s hard. I’ll try to remember that joy isn’t permanent—and neither is misery, and I’ll try to tell myself to not feel guilty over emotions that I can’t easily control.

So goodbye to my old friend. Goodbye to teenagers hanging out and to troubles that are too heavy for young, still-forming souls.

Hello to this palpable reality that life isn’t always easy or clear cut. Hello to my authentic self and to this self’s authentic sensations. I see you. I recognize you. I hope that’s enough.

Photo: Jenna Carver/Flickr.

This article was first published by elephant journal.

The post The Blurry Edges of Loss & Guilt. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I’m sitting here realizing something: that I will never, ever be able to let go.

Ever.

Letting go can bite me.

For real.

But I need to forgive.

I just sat down to talk with my best friend (my husband) and this is what I told him I thought forgiveness is.

It’s not letting go (because letting go can bite me), but it is this:

Forgiveness is never forgetting.

I cannot help that I remember more than I want to sometimes.

Forgiveness is acceptance.

It’s not saying that anything is okay, or not okay, for that matter—it’s not passing a judgment. Instead, forgiveness is admitting that it happened, that it occurred and that this might not be okay because…

Forgiveness isn’t denial.

It’s not pretending that “you’re a better person” for it or that “it was meant to be,” because that’s bullshit.

Still, forgiveness is moving forward.

That was the crux of what I said to him (my glorious husband-best-friend): it’s moving on, with what happened as a reality of our past.

And then, he said this: “But it keeps coming back to me.”

Ugh. So true.

It haunts me.

It visits me in my sleep.

My mistakes—the things that, really, have made me who I am and who I’m happy to be.

All those years spent hating my body, and starving myself because I thought in some odd way that it could starve my emotional self too; and that my old wounds would somehow wither and die along with my shrinking skin.

The sharp, dagger-words that I wish I could take back, but that I can’t.

The harsh withdrawal from someone I love, in order to first save myself.

All of that and more—all of the ghosts.

Because the past might be accepted or, further, even moved on from, but what about when it revisits, like a ghost—like a phantom of Christmas past?

I saw a ghost in my house last night. Twice.

I do not believe in ghosts. Rather, I’m not sure what the hell I believe in, but I’ve seen them more than once—so there’s that. And I saw a ghost in my house last night on my child’s video monitor while she slept. Twice.

I’ve seen ghosts before—although I don’t believe in them.

(It’s funny what happens to you, when you don’t believe.)

Once, in a farther corner of the world from where I currently sit typing, I saw a dog reclining in the sunny spot on the carpet in front of a bay window—right where a dog would actually lie. I was cradling my hot mug of tea in my bare hands and walking myself into the other room, to also sit.

I saw that dog like it was right there—a spaniel with spots just so, and of just this color. I had already seen this vision before, too. The dog had run into our parlor room (it was an old-fashioned brick house in the middle-of-nowhere New Mexico—which we adored, by the way).

I recall standing agape and holding the hinged screen door ajar—a dog just ran into my house! And then I turned, and it was gone.

And let me, equally, tell this: we received a gift from our New Mexican home’s former tenant.

It was a beautifully framed, old photograph of the house after it was first built—and there, in the foreground, was a woman holding a dog’s paw as it stood on its hind legs, shaking its hand. The dog was identical to the one I’d seen and felt in that house on more than one occasion.

(For those of you who have ever loved a dog, it will come as no surprise that if a ghost could exist, a dog deserves to be one too.)

I didn’t want to re-hash my spectral tale, but I must. Because the past is not irrelevant—or even invisible—and this is how we forgive:

We remember.

We never let go.

But we live on—we hold our former experiences and our former selves in the palms of our hands like apparitions that we can’t abandon—and we walk on.

We get out of our own minds, and our own prior experiences, and we live the fuck on.

Period.

And I’d love to insert an inspiring forgiveness quote here, but they all suck.

However, I’ll offer this up:

Letting go can bite me—it’s not going to happen—but my present will not now, nor will it ever, be determined by my past.

This article was first published by elephant journal.

The post (Letting Go Can Bite Me.) This is How We Forgive. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.